


The Tinder Effect

by cassbuttandsquirrel, mkhockeygurl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Molly being Molly, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Online Dating, Romantic Comedy, Tinder, no smut because I just cant write smut, repressed feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 08:58:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5621038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassbuttandsquirrel/pseuds/cassbuttandsquirrel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mkhockeygurl/pseuds/mkhockeygurl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper’s love life has become non-existent. It's dead, deader than the bodies she works on every day. So when her friend persuades her to get a tinder account, she doesn't even protest. After all it's just a stupid dating app.</p><p>Little does she know that the famous Sherlock Holmes, the one person she actually tries her hardest to not think about also has an account. Under an alias, for a case of course. By chance the detective and pathologist are matched. As far as Molly knows she matched up with just another random bloke from London... What begins as harmless fun soon becomes all too serious when Sherlock realizes that he's constructed a pile of lies that even he has difficulty to get out of again.</p><p>But is it already too late to fix it? And who will get hurt on the way?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Selena_Guardi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selena_Guardi/gifts).



> First off, I would like to thank the mods for making this all possible. Many, many thanks!
> 
> I want to thank my co writer and best friend for putting up with my rambling and late night writing sessions. And a hearty thanks to my sister as well for being my beta.
> 
> Most of the recognition should probably go to Selena Guardi who was the reason this story happened. Months before the challenge was even announced I approached her with this idea and she was super helpful and had a lot of great tips. I told her I might try it out. Well, the challenge was announced and I thought that I should go for it. The best part was she ended up being my artist as well. So Selena this is for you.

The gentle patter of rain against the glass pane marked a typical rainy, British day. London scarcely saw sun in late September and rarely felt the warmth of its golden-eyed stare. The weather meant John and Sherlock were confined to the small living space of their flat, with little entertainment and an atmosphere of boredom that was inescapable. John, who was slumped comfortably in his chair, tried not to listen to his best friend explaining to him about how his chances of getting and keeping a girlfriend would be higher if he wore a certain type of jumper. John was happy with his jumpers and he was happy with his love life, so all he could do was hope for a miracle. When Sherlock’s phone rang, John sighed relief at his saviour, though the moment was short lived.

"John pass me my phone."

John looked over to Sherlock, who was sprawled rather unceremoniously out on the sofa. "Sherlock it’s in your pocket."

"Yes I know, now can you pass me my phone?"

John glared as he pushed himself up. He trudged across the small living room and reached into Sherlock’s jacket pocket.

"No not in there.” The detective said nonchalantly, “…my trousers."

"Oh no...Get it yourself!"

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin as he replied, "Don't be a fool, pass me my phone!"

"A FOOL! Bloody hell Sherlock!" John reached into the front pocket of Sherlock’s trousers and slipped the now silent phone out. He was about to check who called when it began to ring again. John was feeling annoyed and so he asked sarcastically, "I suppose you want me to hold it to your ear now?"

"Now why would I want you to do that?!? I am capable of holding my own phone!"

John glared at him in disbelief as he literally threw the phone at Sherlock and abruptly stormed off to his room muttering oaths that would make a sailor proud.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and got up off the couch, he slid one hand into his pocket and with the other he hit the talk button, "Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah finally!” An exasperated voice sighed into the phone, “Can you come down to the corner of Doddington Grove and Braganza Street? Appears to be a triple murder. And..."

"I will be there in 25 minutes." He ended the call and threw his hands in the air in jubilation. "Yes, finally a case worth leaving the flat for.”

John heard Sherlock’s shout his name and grumpily returned to the living room. “Yes?”

“Let’s go! We have a case.”

Any of the feelings related to what had just occurred where forgotten as John smiled excitedly and hastily grabbed his jacket off its hook, following the detective down the stairs.

* * *

 It wasn’t often that Sherlock traveled to the southern parts of London. When he did it was usually for a case and this afternoon was no exception. As the cab drove up to the address the detective inspector had given him, Sherlock took note of his surroundings. It appeared to be a nice neighbourhood, the kind where everyone knows their neighbours and where kids play on the streets, definitely not the typical place for a crime scene. The cab came to a stop and Sherlock and John jumped out. They were greeted (though in a very unkindly fashion) by Sally Donovan. “Hey freak. I’m surprised you haven’t been around sooner.”

Sherlock frowned, “Why?”

“Seems that we have might have a serial killer on our hands. There have been three murders before this one here.”

It bothered Sherlock that he hadn’t caught wind of this before now. Something had been keeping him preoccupied, or rather a certain someone at Bart’s hospital. Brushing aside his annoyance he spouted, “Well I’d say you’re actually not ‘surprised’ but _happy_ that I haven’t shown up sooner. Otherwise I would be here to tell Anderson that while he’s cheating on his wife with you, you’re cheating on him with the desk sergeant, and…” he grinned smugly, “you’re pregnant.”

Anderson chose that moment to come up beside Sally. She gasped and then without another word rushed off.

“Anderson. Lestrade inside?” Sherlock didn’t wait for a reply as he brushed past a very confused and angry looking Anderson. John smiled apologetically as he followed Sherlock into a small cottage.

"Why didn't you call me earlier?!?" Sherlock demanded angrily of Lestrade, when he found him in the hallway.

The inspector ran his hand through his hair in an act of defeat "We had it under control...well we did until this!" He motioned to the eerie scene before him.

Three men sat side by side in the middle of the floor in a small room that was decorated like a Buddhist temple. Colourful cloths were draped across chairs and hung from the ceiling. Plumes of incense rose from different areas in the room creating a haze, almost to the extent that one’s eyes began to water. Burnt out candles and patches of wax formed a circle around the victims. All of them were barefoot and their shoes lay in a corner of the room. At first glance it would appear that they were peacefully meditating. But when John bent in to take a closer look he noticed the distinct signs of death. ‘So how are they all sitting in a Buddhist position?’ he thought to himself.

Sherlock scanned the crime scene and began storing away all the relevant information. “Businessmen, gay, date night, one male assailant.” He stopped and bent down to pick something off the ground, “Lestrade has forensics been through here already?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He slipped it into his pocket and looked around as if to think about anything else he could mention but believed none of the other information to be relevant for the others.

“That’s it, you’re not going to even explain?!?” Lestrade glared angrily, “We’ve never had something like this before and that’s all you can give me?!?”

Anderson broke the tension and piped up, “It was obviously a ritual killing…”

“Anderson shut up! You’re a blooming idiot and we don’t need any of your crap advice at the moment!” The crime scene went silent and every person in the room stopped what they were doing, slowly turning their heads. This was not to be expected when the one who yelled at Anderson was not the consulting detective but Inspector Lestrade himself! Anderson looked taken aback and left the room in bewilderment. Sherlock on the other hand silently nodded his head in appreciation because someone else besides himself had finally noticed Anderson’s incompetence.

Hoping to not have to explain his observations Sherlock quickly turned to John, “Your turn. Tell us what you think.”

John, who had quietly watched each amusing exchange unfold, suddenly glanced warily at Lestrade, but seeing no resistance he found a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on one at a time. He kneeled down and cleared his throat, “Can’t give you an idea of the cause of death because there is no obvious external trauma and no blood. The men all appear to have died at or around the same time, their skin is waxy and has a purple hue.” He turned on of the men’s foot and frowned, “Wait, this isn’t right…”

“What?” asked a very confused Lestrade.

“Well, the victims’ bodies are as stiff as a bored which one would conclude is due to Rigor Mortis. Rigor Mortis sets in after four hours, if this time frame were true, there should be obvious signs of Livor Mortis; pooling of blood _but_ , there isn’t.” The confusion was evident in John’s tone. “The victim’s feet at most show _early_ signs of Livor Mortis and together with the overall light purple skin colour; which suggests that the victims died less than four hours ago…” He looked up at Sherlock and Lestrade from where he was kneeling on the floor, his forehead wrinkled.

“I don’t understand? That’s not possible!”

“Sorry Greg, you’ll know more once an autopsy is done.” John shook his head in apology.  

Maybe it was because he was feeling slightly sorry for the inspector or because some supernatural force had taken over Sherlock’s body but for whatever reason he brought up his observations. He folded his hands behind his back and sighed, “I guess you still want me to explain my OBVIOUS findings??”

John flicked Sherlock a warning glare. Lestrade took a deep breath, “Please, indulge us.”

“Three men dressed in fine suits that only a businessman could afford. Spencer Hart, Prada, and Armani. But if they were out on business than they would wear their full suit yet none of them are wearing their jacket. The two on the left aren’t wearing their tie and several top buttons are undone, now one could do this after work but the action of pulling the tie off would cause the neck of the shirt to crease and their necks aren’t creased. So they purposely wanted to go for a more casual look. The third man is wearing a tie but has rolled up his sleeves again, one would do that after work, but he took care in folding them neatly and he buttoned them in place. As for them being gay, first victim has a stamp from a club, more specifically the BVX club which is a popular gay club here in London.”

Lestrade frowned and looked at John, “How does he know…” The sentence went unfinished as Sherlock continued his deductions.

“The second spent way too much time on his appearance, too much product in his hair and his eyebrows have been plucked and shaped. The third has decided to lose his suit trousers and instead go for a pair of very uncomfortable looking skinny jeans and also has a stamp on his wrist from a totally different gay club. So they came out here to meet someone. Male assailant because when we entered the room there was a distinct cologne smell mixed with the incense and I have smelled every person in this room and none of them are wearing this cologne. Also under the shrubs outside I spotted the imprint of a size 10 men’s shoes. Topman perf derby to be exact, how do I know this? John has the exact pair and decided to stand on my notes when he stood on the kitchen table to fix the light.”

“Are you sure the assailant is a man? Forensics found traces of glitter and a tube of lipstick…”

Sherlock raised his brow and in a tone that screamed don’t you dare question me said, “Of course I’m sure, unless….” He stopped in his tracks, smiled wide and without further explanation pulled on his leather gloves and started towards the door. 

 “Bloody hell! This is a fucking mess!” Lestrade stormed out of the room as he yelled at the pathologists assistants to get the bodies over to Bart’s _asap_.

John rolled his eyes and snorted to no one in particular as he still stood in the room. Right at this moment he had no _damn_ idea why he ever got involved with Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly stretched her legs and rolled her shoulders as she pushed off from her desk. Working four hours non-stop was not the best idea, and the lighting in her small office was beginning to give her a headache.  She sighed as she eyed the reports and death certificates; sadly being knee- deep in paperwork was reality, so when Meena decided to grace her with one of her oh-so-frequent phone calls Molly was not in the best of moods.

“Meena, sweetheart, now is not the best time!”

“Aw come on Molls, you miss me.”

Molly scrunched her nose, “I guess so…” She smiled mischievously. “I suppose I can take a little break from these reports.” She walked out of her office and into the main lab.

“Ugh reports! BORING!”

“You could say that again! So, what’s up?” She asked as she switched her mobile to her other hand so that she could pull out a lab stool and sit down at the lab bench.

“Well you need to get laid.”

“Ummm….okay?? That’s rather upfront even for you.”

“Just listen. You haven’t been on a date in F-O-R-E-V-E-R! The last action you saw was with that creepy criminal bloke who turned out to be gay…”

“WAIT! He wasn’t gay!! He was faking it.”

“Well that’s beside the point.” There was a brief pause that threatened to dampen the mood so Meena rushed on. “Anyways you’ve been so stressed and immersed in your work that I came up with a little something that will (hopefully!) loosen you up a bit. Because lady you need to CHILL!”

“Meena. I’m fine. I like working! And I know how to chill.” Molly fingers twisted her lab coat sleeve.

“Yeah, sure. At home with a cat. And anyway, my idea is better.”

“Oi! You love Toby! That being said, I seriously doubt it.” Molly cracked a small smile as she envisioned Meena’s responding eye-roll.

“See?! You need some more human interaction!!”

“Fine. What is your ‘great idea’?”

“Tinder.”

“Ummm yeah and who is that?”

Molly could hear her friend’s exasperated huff of breath through the mobile.

“Darling. First off it’s not a _who_ , it’s a _what_. Secondly it’s my pumpkin spice latte and it is going to be your deep fried Mars bar. Simple explanation it’s a dating app.”

Molly’s confusion at the incomprehensible metaphors quickly dissipated as soon as she heard the words ‘dating app.’

“No, no, no! No online dating! I _told_ you Meena, we already went through this. No more sites and absolutely no apps!”

“It’s not the others, it’s easy, simple and with a swipe of your finger you can control who you match up with and who you don’t. Please Molls you’ve got to try it! What’s the harm?”

“Meena Garwood don’t you start with that voice!”

“Sorry to break it to you...but you’re NOT my mother.” Meena giggled, “I feel like this happens every time we talk.”

“And whose fault is that?” Molly laughed and realized how great it was to have someone that you could just say whatever you pleased and they would understand. “Hey hun I love you lots but I don’t want to do online dating.”

“How about you try it. Just for a week and if you don’t like it you can get rid of it and I will never (potentially) force you to try out any kind of dating again!”

Molly spun herself around on one of the lab stools as she pondered this. Either she could agree and in a week be free of Meena’s constant nagging or...well there really was no or. “Fine. I’ll do it. _But_ you have to keep your promise. If you break it than you owe me 50 pounds.”

“50!! Are you crazy? That’s bloody expensive! 25.”

“45 and that's final.”

“30 and tickets to Hamlet with…what’s that bloke's name?? Benedict Cumber something?”

“Benedict Cumberbatch? DEAL!”

Meena squealed, Molly lifted her mobile away from her ear and cringed. “How much time do you have?”

Molly glanced at her watch. “15 minutes max. Tell me how to set up an account and then I’ll call you when I get home and you can give me step by step instructions, because you know me and technology...not happening. Now Sherlock on the other hand, he is very technology savvy, it’s fun to watch him work in the lab with all the equipment.”

“Molls! How did Sherlock get into here? THIS is about you, not some guy who tricks you and admits that he will never have a relationship with anyone.”

Molly huffed, she couldn’t help it. Sherlock just popped up when she least expected it. Come to think of it he hadn’t been in recently. Meena voice wafted through the speaker.

“So you might want to sit in your office and you’re going to want to write this down. Search for…”

“Wait, wait! Let me sit.” Molly plopped into her desk chair. “Okay.”

“... the Tinder app and download it. You’ll to have to sign in with your Facebook so make sure that you have some nice profile pics, for example, don’t have all of them with Toby!”

“Hey what’s wrong with my pictures of Toby?”

“Luv they’ll think you're a crazy cat lady and you’ll never be matched. But you're not and you have so show them how beautiful and smart and fun you are.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll take that into account. So what’s next?”

“Next they’ll ask you to add the age range that you’re looking for and what gender you’re interested in. You’ll also have to set a distance, so how close or far away you want potential matches to be. From there it will generate a list of people based on the data you provided. And then…”

Molly heard the doors of the morgue open and close and someone call her name. She interrupted Meena. “All right I have to get back to work I think a new body came in and this should be enough information for me to start with. I’ll call you later if I need more help, okay?”

“Oh yeah I understand. Have fun!”

“Yes will do, bye, love you.”

“Love you too.”

Molly dropped her mobile into her lab coat and slipped out of her office. Chris, her lab assistant, stood waiting with three gurneys and a clipboard.

“Where do you want them?”

She gestured towards the autopsy room (A.R.). “Just make sure they’re nicely in a row this time.”

Chris rolled his eyes good-naturedly before handing over the clipboard. “You need to sign off on these.”

Molly nodded and flipped through the pages, signing as she went. Out of habit she looked at the detective who signed off on the reports.

“Chris? Did you see Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes with D.I. Lestrade?”

Chris’s head popped out of the adjoining room. “Unfortunately. All four of them were there - the doctor, the inspector and Sherlock and his ego.”

Molly laughed but made no further comment to Sherlock’s obvious social inabilities.

“Can you set up my tools and call me when you’re ready?” Chris ducked back into the A.R. and Molly could hear him humming Led Zeppelin.

* * *

“You are such an arse.”

“What?” Sherlock was broken out of his mind palace by the angry voice of his friend. “We’re in a cab?”

John ignored Sherlock’s last comment, choosing instead to continue: “You were so rude to Sally today and to basically everyone there!” Sherlock snorted and looked out the rain-streaked window. “I know that she’s always rude to you and I get it, but honestly! Can’t you just go one day without rubbing people the wrong way? Do you have to be so abrasive? Every time, Sherlock! Every time--”

“Dr. Garwood on holiday again?”

John let out a long winded sigh and let his head back against the headrest. “Yes.”

“Will you be working this weekend?”

“The full hours!”

The rhythm of the road filled the silence in the vehicle. It began to lull John to sleep when Sherlock suddenly spoke:  “Three gay men John. Three. Why would _three_ meet there? Or even better, how? If it was a club it would be more understandable but in a small cottage? There was no signs that any “funny business” had taken place. Tell me why?”

John glared and mumbled, “Why are you asking me? Don’t you always have the answer?”

“ _Of course_ I know why…” Though actually he wasn’t quite sure. What he needed was to do was get more information. He needed to check out a businessman’s closest friend, the men’s mobiles.

The cab slowed down in front of Baker St. John stepped out with a grunt and Sherlock smirked, “Come along old man.”

“Says the man who jobs involves lounging in his chair or on the couch for hours. Which reminds me,” John glanced at his wrist, “My shift start at 2pm I’d better get my stuff and head off.”

Sherlock opened the door, “When are you working till?”

“Midnight.”

“Can you get milk on your way home?”

John speared him with a frustrated glare. “FUCK NO!” John had to try hard to keep his temper in check.

They were making their way up the stairs when a frazzled Mrs. Hudson greeted them, “Boys? The roof has a leak in it so I called the repairman. He should be around in a week or two; said he has a waiting list. In the meantime, if any leaks appear in your apartment put a pot underneath it.”

John let out a deep sigh and muttered, “Well I hope it appears above Sherlock’s chair!” And he continued up the stairs without further explanation.

Mrs. Hudson looked confused, so Sherlock indulged her. “Another doctor is on vacation, he has more shifts…”

“Ah yes that would do it.” She patted Sherlock’s hand, “Just make sure that you don’t bother him too much I don’t want any trouble.”

Sherlock tried to look offended, “What?!? Me? Cause trouble? That is not possible…” He smiled and winked, “Don’t worry Mrs. Hudson I’ll try my best.”

* * *

 

John had only been gone an hour and Sherlock had uncovered all the online information that could be found on the three murder victims. Two worked at banks and the other worked in a law firm. They all had high paying jobs. They all had Facebook. The last statement seemed like trivial information, so Sherlock stored it in one of the farthest corners of his mind palace. What he really needed was the mobiles and the autopsy results of the victims. But that wasn’t going to happen until he next saw Lestrade, so in the meantime he had to sit and wait.

Sherlock jumped up from his desk and began to pace. He spied his mobile. Maybe the autopsy results were in early? He turned it on and scrolled to his contacts. Dr. Molly Hooper.

Sherlock: Results in yet?

Molly: I’ve had the bodies here less than 5 hours. What do you think?

Sherlock: Is that a yes?

Molly: NO

Sherlock: But I need them

Molly: And?

Sherlock: Work faster

Molly: Sherlock Holmes don’t you telling me what to do! For your information I complete the autopsies but the results will take longer because their tox screens were interesting.

Sherlock: What did you see in the screens?

Molly: I’ll tell you tomorrow when you come into the lab with Lestrade.

Sherlock: What if I can’t make it?

Molly: Nice try. I know you don’t have any other cases atm

Sherlock: I’m bored

Molly: well I’m not, I have tons of reports and a shift that almost over so only text me if it’s important.

Sherlock: BORED

Sherlock: can you save me some of their tissue?

Molly: SHERLOCK stop bugging me! And NO I won’t if you keep going on like this

Sherlock: Hmmm now I can see why you can’t keep a boyfriend…

Sherlock waited for Molly to reply. Five minutes passed, then ten, he was about to put his mobile away when it suddenly vibrated.

Molly: And to think I was going to send you the tox screen…

Sherlock: Wait? You were? Why aren’t you now?

Molly: Agh you’re so oblivious sometimes…LEAVE ME ALONE

Sherlock cursed and threw his mobile on the floor, lay down on the couch, and sighed. This ‘relationship’ with Molly was more work than he had expected. It seemed to have rules he still hadn’t learned.  He liked talking to Molly and now he was saying things he didn’t even mean for reasons he didn’t quite understand.

* * *

 

John walked in from his shift at 12:30 am to find the detective lounging on the couch glaring at nothing in particular. “What is it now?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up noticing John for the first time. He huffed, “Nothing.”

John lifted a big paper bag in his hand, “I brought take out.”

Sherlock wordlessly walked to the kitchen and pulled out two plates and forks. He shuffled back and, after laying them on a table, plopped down in his chair. He motioned for the bag.

“Well now, the famous detective actually wants to eat. Something _must_ be wrong!” John smirked, and handed the food to Sherlock.

Sherlock glared at him, and piled a bunch of fried noodles and curry chicken onto his plate. “Molly wouldn’t tell me the results…”

John fell back into his chair with surprise, “That’s why you’re in such a huff?” He laughed and shook his head, “Sometimes you’re worse than a child.”

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look but instead of a witty reply began to eat. 

And with that the two men finished their take out in companionable silence.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time Molly came home from work it was late and pouring rain. All she wanted to do was strip off her clothes and stand under the hot stream of her shower for a good thirty minutes. Her clothes were wet, _she_ was wet and work had done nothing to improve her mood. She climbed the stairs to her run-down flat. Although it was all she could afford on her meager salary she couldn’t complain. Her job was great, she had good co-workers, and she had a roof over her head. Her keys jingled as she struggled to unlock the door.

“Bloody lock...I just fixed you last week!” She muttered. When it finally unlocked, she stepped into her safe haven, her cozy cave, the one place that was hers and where she could remain unbothered, _especially_ by a certain consulting detective. The door closed behind her as she was greeted by a familiar face.

“Toby.” She giggled as he sauntered down the hallway, dropped on the floor, and rolled around in front of her.  “Come here.” She picked him up and kissed the top of his head;  cuddling him close, “You hungry?”

He responded with a determined meow and she laughed, “Of course; why am I even asking?”

The impatient tabby followed her to her small kitchen where she had his food and water bowl set up beside the fridge. She poured some dry food into his bowl and ran her small hand down his back as he greedily ate. She headed back into the hallway, finding a register to place her shoes on, hoping they would be dry by the morning. Next she threw her coat in the laundry room. This is what she got for forgetting an umbrella. Molly stopped and cracked her neck. ‘Wow I really need a hot shower’ she thought as she padded down the narrow hallway to her poor excuse of a bathroom.

She peeled her sopping layers off one by one. First her jumper, then her blouse, and her skinny jeans came next. The struggle she went through to free herself from their wet confines left her with the unanimous decision that she wasn’t going to attempt to wear those type of jeans again.  She hopped from one foot to the other and cursed a few times before she finally got them completely off. ‘Why did I wear the stupid things anyways. Oh right, so that if by chance a certain someone came by I would potentially catch his attention about how fetching I looked.’ Instead that someone hadn’t shown up, he had managed to keep her from her work, and had insulted her(again). All that, for a pair of silly jeans. Molly rolled her eyes and scoffed ‘Great!’.

Stepping into the bathtub she turned her shower on. As the first hot jets of water hit her she sighed and hummed in enjoyment. Slowly the stress and tension of the day began to seep from her body as she let her mind drift in the puffs of steam rising around her. She leaned her head back so that her face was right in the spray, the events of the day replaying in her head. What had left her confused was the tox screens of Lestrade’s 3 murder victims. Even stranger was how the victims appeared to be in a state of prolonged rigor mortis.

She had suspected that these men had been killed with a poison of some sorts that then lead to their unnatural stiffness potential rigor mortis. But all three men had clean tox screens, there were absolutely no signs of any unnatural chemicals in their bodies.  And yet Molly had found an injection site. That’s why she had sent more tissue and fluid samples away for further tests and also why she had made Sherlock wait. The mystery made her head spin. She’d have to wait for the rest of the results till tomorrow morning so there was no point in worrying anymore about them. Molly turned off the tap and carefully stepped out taking care not to slip. She wrapped herself in a towel and snagged a second one to dry her hair. She grabbed the heap of her wet clothes and brought them to the dryer, dumping them and her coat in and turning it on for an hour. She left the laundry room and headed down the hallway to her bedroom.  

Molly sat down on the edge of the bed and removed the towel that she had coiled around her head and reached for her brush. As she pulled it through her long hair she saw her calendar out of the corner of her eye and cursed, remembering that she was on call tonight. She quickly finished the brushing and went to the kitchen to retrieve her mobile from her coat.

Molly breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that there were no urgent messages. She scrolled through her emails as she walked back to her bedroom. She pulled back her duvet and lay down, preparing for her late-night instagram trawling when she noticed a red flame icon in the middle of her screen.

‘Oh shit! Tinder.’ Molly tried to remember what Meena had told her. Had she really set up her full account already? She thought back to when she was talking to her best friend, ‘oh wait, yes she had set it all up’. And as Molly was going to figure out pretty soon she now had a list of potentially matches waiting to get her approval.

She debated about just turning her mobile off and going to sleep but her curiosity got the better of her so she tapped the cartoon flame and opened the app. She looked over her profile and noticed that some of the sections were uncompleted. She would figure out tomorrow how she could “spruce” it up but for now she wanted to see how matching worked. She went onto her home screen and a picture of a cute dark haired man popped up on her screen.

Bradley, age 37, 20 km away.

He looked nice enough, but his profile picture was a selfie, so there wasn’t much to go on. Under the heading _About Bradley_ he had listed his hobbies: biking ‘hmm athletic, yes that’s good’, reading ‘oh even better’ and playing chess with my mum ‘oh dear, I’m not too sure about that last bit I’ve already had a run in with a mama’s boy and that did not work out, well I guess that means you are a no’. Molly swiped left and immediately a new guy appeared.

Scott, age 35, 27 km away.  

‘One year younger than me, meh okay’, his pictures were just of him standing in the mirror showing off a bunch of measly rectus abdominis muscles. “Bloody hell I even have better stomach muscles than him and I don’t work out!” and all his profile said was “I can make you dance better than Uma Thurman”. Molly’s eyes narrowed scornfully, ‘Really?’. She looked over at Toby who in the meantime had joined her and made himself comfortable beside her. “What do you think?” Toby replied with a minute yawn and began to clean himself. “That’s obviously a no.” And with a swipe to the left Scott was gone.

Molly was becoming slightly disheartened because she felt like she was swiping left more often than right. A stab of doubt shot through her as she wondered if perhaps she was being too picky. She had gone through profile after profile (without realizing it a half hour had passed) and had come to the point where she was about to turn her mobile off when the next profile caught her eye.

Andrew, age 36 ‘perfect’ she thought to herself. And he is only 10 km away. He had a picture of him with a small grey kitten [“Well would you look at that! Toby! Look! He has a cat too!”] and another of him and some other men (a couple of his buddies ?) playing football. His profile said: geography teacher, pianist, cat lover, curry chicken is my passion. Molly smiled, ‘finally!’ and with a satisfied grin she swiped right. Molly could have kept on swiping if she hadn’t looked over at her alarm clock.

‘12:30?!? Shite!!’ She closed Tinder, and changed her mobile settings to vibrate in case someone had to call her. She grunted as she reached for her bedside lamp to turn it off, and to no one in particular she said, “I need to find a tall bloke, so he can reach this light and I can finally go to sleep without feeling like I sprained my arm!”

* * *

 

An hour later and several blocks away, John Watson sat straight up in his bed, gasping. His shaking hands flew to his face and came back wet, his fingertips chilled by the clear liquid.

“Damn.” Rain water. The soldier-turned-doctor looked up to see a small wet circle about 3 cm in diameter growing on the plaster ceiling. He swore again for good measure. Creeping into the living room, John used his mobile to light the way to the flat’s only couch. Blatantly he remembered Sherlock’s escapades an hour before, in which the couch cushions had become saturated with a mess of curry chicken.   

He pondered the benefits of sleeping on the floor, but when the negatives outweighed the positives he was left with only one last option.  “Ah fuck!” He narrowed his eyes and peered down the dark hallway towards the detectives room. He slowly made his way towards Sherlock’s  room as he thought about this decision. Perhaps it was the stupidest decision he had made all year, including breaking up with Sarah when she was chopping vegetables. John was so distracted by this traumatic memory that he only recalled his roommate’s disturbing habit of sleeping in the nude when his hand was already on the doorknob. Fear gripped him and he stood stock still, horrified by the thought that the only thing separating his sleep deprived psyche from a naked consulting detective was an inch and a half of composite mahogany.

Suddenly the doorknob was ripped from his hand and a scowling face squinted into the hallway. John’s eyes immediately flew downwards, despite the fact that his brain had tried to warn him against it.

“Thank --” was all of the relieved exclamation John was able to breathe out before a fully-clothed Sherlock interrupted,

“What do you want.”  

“Well you see there’s a leak, in the ceiling of my bedroom, and I need to sleep. I have a long shift again tomorrow and I can’t function if I don’t FUCKING sleep!”

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh and held open the door without a word, turning his head away from his friend. John stared for a moment before accepting the unexpected invitation and cautiously sidled past the taller man.

“Nice trackie bott--”  

“Shut up, John.” The door slammed behind them.

* * *

 

Mrs Hudson was having a very busy morning. Most of her tenants had been complaining about the leaking roof and asking if she could speed up the repairman since 5:00 that morning. She had yet to hear from her tenants in 221B so she decided to check and see if they too had suffered from any leakage. She decided to bring her favourite boys some breakfast tea while she was at it. Sherlock needed someone to fatten him up. The flat was surprisingly quiet when she reached the top step and no one answered her tentative knock. Letting herself in, the landlady noticed that John’s bedroom door was open and that it was empty. She placed the tea tray on the least dirty surface she could find before walking down the corridor towards Sherlock’s room, with the intention of asking him where Dr. Watson was.

“Sherlock?” she called through the door, her voice high and slightly timorous, “Sherlock, do you know where --”

“Fuck!” A voice that definitely did _not_ belong to the tall genius echoed in the room and Mrs. Hudson started. Several other noises, including loud thumping and more swearing, were muffled by the door as the landlady clasped her hands at her chest.

“Ah, never mind, I think I found him.” A pause. “Or maybe you found him.” Mrs. Hudson let out a girlish giggle.

Dr. John Watson threw open the door and crowded the elderly woman into the small hallway. “Mrs. Hudson.” He nodded solemnly as he pushed past her towards the kitchenette.    

“Sherlock I really don’t understand why you have separate bedrooms. If you’re only going to use one I’ll stop charging you for the other!”

John turned and glared at Sherlock to be silent. Sherlock ignored him and replied, “I keep asking myself the same question.”

“For the last time Mrs. Hudson, I am not gay!”

Mrs. Hudson giggled, “If you say so.”

Sherlock shared a significant look with the landlady. John ignored them and hurried around the apartment, quickly shrugging on his coat as he hurried out the door.

“Thanks for waking me up, Mrs. Hudson!” his voice drifted up the stairs a moment before the front door slammed shut.

She replied more to Sherlock than to John who by now was probably half across London considering the pace with which he had left the flat, “I really do hope I didn’t interrupt anything special, I understand that you both are busy and to find time can be hard…”

Sherlock cut her off, “Now Mrs. Hudson, don’t you worry,” he smirked as he ushered her to the door, “thank you for the breakie, I’ll see you later.” And with that he shut the door and let a rare toothy grin spread over his angular face.

A tinny ringing sound filled the apartment and Sherlock strode towards the mantel where his mobile sat beside Fernando the skull. With a greeting nod to Ferdie, Sherlock picked up the mobile and held it to his ear.

“Lestrade. What do you have for me?”

“Thats creepy is what that is.” The rough voice of the inspector rattled through the earpiece, “You knowing that it's me before I even say my name.”

“I have call display.” Sherlock’s voice was curt.

“Ah. Of course.” Lestrade cleared his throat. “Um, Molly wanted me to let you know the lab results are back.”

“Why couldn’t she have called me herself? She has my number.”

“Don’t ask me!!”

Sherlock hung up; Lestrade could give him no more pertinent information. He took the next cab to Barts.

* * *

 

Sherlock’s steps echoed in the dim hallways of the hospital basement. As he neared the morgue a similar echo sounded from another hallway that also lead to the morgue. He knew it was Lestrade before he even saw him.

“Hello Gavin.”

“It’s Greg.”

“Really?!? I was sure…”

“Well you were wrong, so can we get on with it?”

“Wait!” Sherlock held his arm out in front of the inspector so that he couldn’t open the doors of the morgue. “I need the victims’ mobiles.”

“Sorry-- not going to happen. The techs are going to analyze them; so for now no one can handle them except the evidence technicians.”

Sherlock frowned but to Lestrade’s surprise he calmly replied, “Fine, I will wait until they are ready to be released.”

“Perfect.”

What Lestrade didn’t realize that as soon as he had said that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to have the victims mobiles , the consulting detective had begun to create a plan which may have involved him breaking in to Scotland yard and “borrowing” the mobiles of the 3 murdered men. One way or another he was going to get them. The mobiles were the key; that he was sure of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When John comments on Sherlocks attire. Trackie (tracksuit) bottoms are also called sweatpants in North America. ;p


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade was late. Molly glanced at the time again. If the inspector was already 15 minutes late that meant that he was probably stuck in some sort of traffic. Molly figured she had about ten minutes before Lestrade showed up. Chris had just taken his break, so she didn't feel too guilty when she pulled off her gloves and slipped her phone out of her pocket.  She answered a few texts from Meena and one from her cousin before she noticed the notification from Tinder. Curious, she opened up the app and the message icon at the top of the screen was lit up. Molly frowned in confusion, did this mean she had been matched?  She tapped on the message icon and it displayed that there were at least 10 different men she could talk to. If she were not at work she might have done a spastic octopus like dance to release her excitement. ‘10 men actually like my profile!’ But instead she acted like a lady and smiled wide as she scrolled through the list of names, stopping at Andrew the cat lover. It indicated that he had messaged her, so she tapped on his name and the message opened.

It read, “Hullo Molly :)  I think that our cats should go on a date.”

Molly bit her lip, trying not to smile. A little thrown off guard (and also a little jittery from the large black tea she had just finished) she replied without really thinking.

  
“I think that would be purrfect” As soon as it sent Molly smacked her palm against her forehead. “Stupid, stupid, who would reply to that?” But before Molly could worry further about her slip up she heard a commotion outside the morgue, and sooner than Molly had expected the doors to the morgue swung open and Greg walked in with Sherlock in tow.

“Molly!” The D.I.‘s voice was cheerful, “How are you today?”

“That doesn’t matter.” Sherlock’s cool voice cut off Molly’s reply.

The petite pathologist could hear Meena’s voice in her head: _What an asshole._ Her face turned slightly red as her lips thinned before Sherlock continued,

“Where are the tox results?”

Feeling particularly vindictive, Molly ignored the consulting detective and turned toward Lestrade, smiling.

“Good morning, Greg! I’m quite well, you?”

Sherlock’s forehead furrowed, his eyes jumping between the two persons.

“Ah, the wife’s been complaining again, but --”

“She filed for divorce last night for the fifth time.” Sherlock mentioned casually. “Now the _case._ ” He said impatiently, raising his eyebrows.

Molly purposely ignored Sherlock (once again) and turned her back to him as she smiled sympathetically towards Lestrade. “I’m sorry.” She led the men over to where she had the three victims laying on tables beside each other.

She grabbed a new set of gloves and pulled them on and looking over at the inspector she said, “One thing I can say for sure is that they all died the same way and they had no foreign DNA on them.”

She pulled the crisp white sheet halfway down the first victim's body. “Jackson McDuggar, age 38, no signs of blunt force trauma, there is one area of sharp force trauma (this was found on all the victims), it is a small puncture hole in the armpit. When I opened him up I discovered that it was created by a needle. I tested 5 different needle sizes and found it to be a 23 gauge needle. It was pushed in between the third and fourth rib and stopped just before it could enter the heart. As for the supposed rigor mortis, I had the overnight staff keep an eye on the bodies and they said that the bodies started to “relax” at around 4 in the morning. Whatever killed these men is what caused the unusually stiffening, but it sadly also messed up the time of death calculations so I can only give you an estimate of around 9 am yesterday morning.

She stopped and looked questioningly at Lestrade. “What were these men doing there in the morning? Didn’t they have jobs to get to?”

“They were on breakfast dates.”

Lestrade frowned but knowing that Sherlock was almost always right, he sighed and nodded. “Yeah what he said.”

“Breakfast dates, they’re crazy, no one does breakfast dates, lunch dates are so much better.” She laughed more to herself than to the others, “Ha and look where it got them…” Only seconds after she regretted her inappropriate comment. “My apologies,” she mumbled, slightly embarrassed.

Lestrade tried to hide a smile, “No worries Molly.” He returned his attention to the corpses behind Molly.  “So what do you think killed them and caused all this? A poison?”

Molly scrunched her nose, “I wish, and that’s also what I suspected at first, but I ran a tox screen on all men and they were clean! But something was injected so I ran more tests and I found that there were high levels of calcium and a potassium like substance (it appears to be a mutation of some sorts) which are naturally found in the body, _but_ the levels were abnormally high, so more testing needs to be done because I think that this is related to what killed them.”

For the first time since she started going off about her results, she looked over at Sherlock and smiled when she saw him nodding in approval.

At the same moment, Sherlock glanced up, their eyes unintentionally meeting. Molly’s smile instantly dropped as she quickly glanced away, but the dark-haired man didn’t miss it and he knew that he was back in her good books.

Usually by now Sherlock would have commented or given his input but surprisingly he was quite up till now. “I can look into the chemicals,” he offered, which actually meant ‘I might get Wiggins to help me.’ (Though he didn’t voice it aloud because of the D.I.’s presence).

“So that’s all then?”

“Yes. I’m sorry inspector but until we know more about what killed them I have nothing else.” Molly felt rather helpless but there really wasn’t anything else she could do.

Lestrade looked like he was ready to rip his hair out but thankfully for the sake of the timid pathologist he kept his frustration under control, gave her a curt thank you, and pulled out his phone to relay the meager results to his team.

As Lestrade left the morgue Sherlock said something very rare. “Good job Molly I think you’re the only pathologist who would have thought to go further when the tox screen showed nothing.”

Molly looked up in surprise as she pulled the sheet back up over victim one's face, “Th-thank -you…”

“Oh don’t act all flustered about it, anyone else would say the same.” He suddenly switched topics, “I’m going to have one last look at the bodies.”

Molly put her hands on her hips, “The least you could do is ask.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, “Fine. Dr. Hooper, may I have one last look at the bodies before I leave your presence?

Molly knew there was no point in even trying to say anything else, but really, she had had about enough of his sarcastic comments. “Yes, but I’m going to stay and watch because we don’t want and incident like the last time where you went and cut off a leg and left with it wrapped in the other pathologist lab coat!” She glared for good measure.

Sherlock glared back but seeing that she was not going to move he turned and moved to victim three and pulled the sheet down to his abdomen.

As Sherlock continued his perusal of the victims Molly reached into her pocket for her mobile. She noticed that she had more Tinder notifications. She smiled when she saw that Andrew the cat lover had replied. “Haha, good pun =) Fantastic! What kind of cat dinner is a good first date? Kibbles? Or kibbles and wet food?”

Molly didn’t realize that as she was browsing through the dating app Sherlock had been watching her out of the corner of his eye and he was curious as to what was making her smile and blush so much.  

He got straight to the point, “Who are you texting?”

Molly started. “Mind your own business, Sherlock.” Her voice was cold despite the residual heat in her cheeks.

The detective narrowed his eyes: “Did you know, an average of 7,000 people are scammed a month by fake online romantic partners in the UK alone. I believe the term is ‘catfishing’.”

“I know what it’s called, Sherlock.” Molly glared.

“Well if you know, why are you talking to strangers?”

“Because unlike you I am _trying_ to have a life, and for your information I won’t be scammed!” She said the last bit in a high but determined voice. Then squaring her shoulders she calmly said: “Now if you could, please leave. That would be very much appreciated.”

Without another word or snide remark Sherlock turned and with a flip of his coat and swish of his scarf he was gone.

* * *

 

“Sherlock!” Although the voice was friendly, Sherlock had to keep himself from jumping. Inspector Lestrade was just stepping into Scotland Yard as the consulting detective was making his strategic escape after a successful ‘visit’ to the evidence lockup.  Shoving his hands deeper into his pockets and keeping a straight face, Sherlock responded to the detective calmly.

“Hullo.”

“Why are you here? Visiting Anderson?” Lestrade snickered.

Sherlock glowered, “Of course not I had to…..” Sherlock paused as he thought of a reason. “...to pick up a document for Mycroft.”

Lestrade frowned, “Really? But…”

Before he could ask anything else Sherlock said, “Anyways I have a meeting, bye Greg.” By strategically saying the D.I’s name correctly Sherlock pulled the attention away from himself and Lestrade smiled as he realized the genius had finally remembered his name (though Sherlock had known it all along). By the time that thought had occurred to the older man, Sherlock was already down the steps and calling for a taxi.

* * *

 

Sherlock was buzzing with excitement as he skirted several water-collecting pots on the way up the stairs at 221B. He hummed as he walked into his flat and he laughed as he replayed the scene of him ‘borrowing’ the cell phones.

“What’s so funny?” He turned suddenly to find a very tired and unamused doctor lounging in _his_ chair.

“Nothing…” his raised his brow, “Why are you sitting in my chair?”

John gestured with a teacup in hand to his own chair, Sherlock's eyes followed it to see a big pot on a very soaked chair. “These leaks are getting out of hand!”

Sherlock smirked, “Seems like you’ve been the only one having trouble.”

“Just you wait, one day something’s going to happen to you!” John stated matter of factly as he began to get up.

Sherlock waved his hand, “You can stay there I’ll work at my desk.” John sat back down and opened the book that he had been reading when Sherlock came home.

Sherlock took his seat at the desk. A few seconds later he suddenly turned his gaze upon his friend. John felt a prickle on his neck he looked up (it was a sense he got whenever someone was watching him, he had acquired it during his time in the army) and met Sherlock’s eyes taken aback slightly by the intensity.

“What?” John asked, frustrated.

“Well? Aren’t you going to ask me where I was?”

“Ummm… no.” John turned back to his book as Sherlock huffed.

Sherlock continued to stare disconcertingly at his friend.

“Fine!” John burst out, exasperated. “Where were you, Sherlock?”

His friend smiled maniacally and slowly pulled three mobiles out of his pocket and waved them around triumphantly.

“Sherlock are those what I think they are?”

“I dunno, what do you think they are?”

John sighed (knowing that there was no point in getting mad now), got up and came over to Sherlock’s desk, “The victim’s mobiles?”

Sherlock nodded.

“And how did they get into your possession?”

Sherlock laughed and pointed to the chair next to him by the desk, “Have a seat and I’ll tell you.”

John sat down with a huff, and leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, “Go on.”

“When we were driving back from the crime scene I realized that the victims hadn’t had their mobiles on them. I called after you had gone to work and found out that forensics had bagged them before we came. A businessman’s mobile _is_ his office, so the reason these three men were there must be on their mobiles! I went to the morgue today…”

John interrupted him with a joking smile, “How was Molly?”

Sherlock frowned, “Why would I care? Don’t interrupt me!” He continued, “I arrived at the morgue and met Lestrade and asked him about the mobiles, he said they were in storage waiting to be processed by forensics. Well we both know how long forensics takes, _especially_ if Anderson is on duty. So I decided that I would ‘borrow’ the mobiles until I find out why the men were at that cottage and who killed them.”

“Please tell me that by ‘borrow’ you actually mean ‘borrow’ and not _steal_!”

“Stealing would mean that I wouldn’t return it, but I am, therefore I do believe borrowing is politically correct.”

John pursed his lips sighing through his nose. One of these days he would move out; hopefully sooner rather than later.

“When I arrived at Scotland Yard I took the lift down to the basement where the evidence storage is. The guard on duty recognized me right away and asked me to deduce him. I asked him to let me in but he said no so I decided that I should give in to his demands since he was my way in. Well it turns out he is a frequent pot user, cheating on his fiancé, and like’s to skip forensic protocol which has led to him ‘losing’ evidence every so often.” Sherlock rubbed his hands together, “Ooh yes it was fun, watching him squirm and then seeing the relief in his face as I told him that I wouldn’t tell, on one condition.”

“You didn’t!”

“Yes John, it was necessary, I told him that if he wanted to keep his job than I was to get the mobiles and would return them at an unspecified time.”

“You fucking blackmailed a guard in Scotland Yard!”

“Meh ‘blackmailed’ is quite a harsh word, don’t you think? I like to call it ‘strongly convinced’ him…”

John ran his hands down his face his eyes closed as if against the seemingly unusually cruel world.

“After that he gladly let me into the storage and I got the mobiles!” Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, “And there you have it.”

“Un-fucking-believable!” John stood up and glared, “You’d better leave me out of this!”

He turned his back to Sherlock and walked to Sherlock’s armchair where he sat down, grumbling to himself. When he was sure Sherlock was focused on the mobiles he smiled, ‘He’s done worse and it is somewhat amusing’.

Sherlock took the mobiles and laid them side by side, all three were iPhones, well used with small scratches. He turned them all on and noticed that forensics must have already had the tech department remove the passwords. He swiped through the first phone finding nothing out of the usual, only a bunch of apps and reminders, music, settings, pictures, documents, meetings, and an app that was the shape of a flame…Sherlock stopped suddenly. The flame, where had he seen the flame before? Ah yes, when Molly had been messaging he had spotted a little red flame in the corner of her mobile. Hmmm what kind of app was it? Sherlock started looking through the other two phones and was surprised when he noticed that all three phones had this flame app.

What the hell was this? He opened it in one of mobiles, at the top of the screen it said, ‘Tinder’. Sherlock frowned. He grabbed John’s laptop (because he had accidentally shot his in one of his more recent fits of boredom) and opened the internet browser, typing in the search bar, Tinder.

A light went on in Sherlock’s head as the search results appeared. A dating app. _Of course._ So all three victims had the same dating app on their mobiles, ‘and let’s not forget Molly’ a voice in his head added. Sherlock frowned, “Stop it I don’t care! She can do whatever she wants…”

John turned around, “You talking to me?” He raised his brow in question.

Sherlock shook his head and John turned back to his book.

The dark-haired man hunched back over the phones and had just begun browsing the chat history of the first victim (Oliver Abramson) when the screen faded to black and a window popped up saying that there was only 3% power left in the battery. The detective growled; of course! He looked over at his best friend who was dozing off, his novel slipping from his hands. “John!”

John’s head snapped up, his one cheek was red from where it had been resting on his hand and his eyes were slightly glazed.  “You had better have a good reason for waking me.”

“The mobile is almost dead. I need a charger. These are the newer iPhones I only have the older charger.”

If John had been a female he might have just started bawling and become an emotional wreck but even in his tired, angry and frustrated state he thought it would be the best for the both of them if he left for a while. He pushed himself up from the chair, “Your card.”

“It’s in Fernando.”

John quirked his brow. “Why?”

“Long story.”

John pulled the credit card out of Fernando’s mouth and grabbed his jacket. If one listened carefully you could hear him muttering down the stairs, “Everything with you is a long story.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For our story assume that Grindr has not been invented. And just to clarify in case you are wondering who Fernando is, he is Sherlock's skull (it sits on the mantel above the fireplace).


	5. Chapter 5

All John Watson really wanted when he came home from a busy clinic was some peace, and maybe a nap. Unfortunately for him, he was not going to get either of those things at Baker Street. The moment the doctor stepped into his shared flat, the smell of rubbing alcohol and rotten eggs almost physically assaulted his nostrils. Billy ‘The Wig’ Wiggins stood, in all his dirty-coated and greasy-haired glory, at the kitchen table with several intricate arrays of tubes and corresponding beakers (John really should have been more suspicious when Sherlock had cleaned it off all by himself) and was bent over his flatmate’s familiar microscope.

 _Speak of the devil_ , John thought as his friend walked out of the bathroom.

“Sherlock!”

“John.” Sherlock interrupted John from reprimanding with a calm nod. “You’ve met Wiggins.”

John absolutely had. The thin face of the drug addict brought back memories of the cartel case they took on last year, but most of the remembered scenes went in and out of focus. That case had not been placed on the doctor’s blog; John was not particularly proud of that month.

At his name, Billy raised his head to give John a very disconcerting hollow-eyed look and a wave of his fingers.

John coughed and flapped his arms against his sides as he often did when he was uncomfortable. When the budding chemist didn’t look away John finally gave him a nod at which the unexpected guest turned back to the microscope.

John sent a scathing glare in Sherlock’s direction, clearly stating that this was _not_ done and stalked off to his bedroom.

Unaware of John’s frustration, Sherlock was summoned by Billy to come look at what he had discovered.

“Shezza I found something, looks like one of those things you call an alkaloid but it’s been modified.”

Sherlock looked into the microscope and over the nearly ineligible results that Wiggins had written down. “Nice work. I’ll have to run it through a machine at Barts to find out what it is and why it was modified.”

“Modified to hide it, I’d say. I seen it all the time in drugs, they like making ‘em invisible.”

* * *

 Molly stood at the morgue sink, carefully washing her hands. She could feel her mobile vibrating in her pocket and after drying her hands she pulled it out. She smiled at her background photo. She had swapped it just that morning, from a picture of Toby to a picture of Toby and Philippe, Andrew’s cat. She had taken it during the cat-date/human-date last night, which had, in her books been _quite_ successful. By the end of the night she was pretty sure that this man was neither gay nor a criminal mastermind. Although he did have an unusual penchant for pomegranate martinis. This train of thought was quickly cut off by the swinging open of the morgue doors.

“Chris, if you say that ‘Zep’ is better than Bowie one more time I will honestly lay you out on this table an---”

“I don’t know if I should be happy because I listen to neither or concerned with how you treat your employees.” Sherlock smirked as she turned, “workplace harassment is a crime you realise.”

Molly felt like she wanted to melt into her shoes. Unfortunately she had learned from a very young age that this was actually physically impossible.

“Don’t worry I won’t tell a soul.” He winked and pointed to the lab equipment, “I need to use the equipment.”

The small pathologist was still feeling a little rattled so she silently gestured towards the far end of the lab and then made a quick exit towards her office.

Craving temporary distraction, Molly unlocked her mobile and quickly opened the Tinder app. Andrew had sent her a message, **“Hey Molly I had a great time on Friday!”**

Molly replied [ **“So did I!”** ] and attached her photo of the two cats.

 **“I had no idea we were both so photogenic!”** was the reply, and Molly smiled.

As Molly was typing out a reply, she received another message from a person she matched up with recently. It said, **“I like my women like I like my jeep-- topless.”**

Molly gasped, ‘How rude,’ she thought, ‘well I’m not replying to that!’  She returned to replying to the cat-lover, **“I think they want to get together again…”**

Chris poked his head into the office. “Molly! There you are. Hi. You realize Sherlock’s using the centrifuge right?”

“Trust me, I am well aware.” Molly replied drily.

“Oh okay. Well I’m heading off for my lunch break. Do you need anything?”

Molly shook her head, “No thank you.” Chris disappeared and a few seconds later she heard the morgue doors close behind him. The small pathologist sat down at her desk and began to go through her never ending pile of reports. She was on her third one when the sound of clinking test tubes coming through her open office door pulled her attention to the lab and a certain someone. She steeled her nerves and walked out of her office. From many years of experience, Molly knew better than to try to make conversation when the consulting detective was working. She walked around the lab and tidied, picking up a pile of papers that looked like hers but she wasn’t sure until she saw the front page. On it was a rough sketch of an, she turned her head as she ran the molecule through her mind, _ah yes_ , a rough sketch of an alkaloid of some sorts. Though it was not at all one she was familiar with. Somehow, while she had been walking around the lab, she had absentmindedly drifted towards the detective. “Sherlock are these yours?” She lifted them in the air with the molecule visible.

He didn’t even look up from where he was pipetting a colourful solution. “Yes. Can you pass them?”

“You know, when I give you permission to use the equipment here that doesn’t mean that you have the right to leave your papers and what-not lying around everywhere.”

Sherlock finally looked up, “You wouldn’t be complaining so much if you knew what it was.” He watched her and gave her a taunting look.

“I know what it is.” She protested, (really she was guessing but having been around Sherlock for so long now she had taken over some of the tricks he had used so often on her). “It has to do with the substance that killed the three victims from Lestrade’s case.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why yes it does.” He paused, his thoughts internally battling before he hesitantly asked, “Do you want to see what I found?”

Molly’s eyes lit up in excitement. “Of course! If I have to look at another report right now I think I’ll just _die_ ,” she said jokingly, gesturing towards the morgue. Molly wasn’t quite sure but she thought she noticed a small smile form on the detective’s face as he turned back towards his work. “So what do you have?”

Sherlock pointed to the molecule on the stack of papers Molly had found. “This. It’s an alkaloid. _But_ it’s not a naturally occurring one. Now Wiggins found that it has been modified. He said that in….his line of business, it’s done to make sure they don’t show up in your system. In it lies our answer.”

“Wiggins?” Molly asked.

“Oh just someone from my homeless network, he knows a lot about,” Sherlock stopped and tried to find a better word for Wiggins’ description but finding none he continued, “...drugs. He is very involved in um...the processing, the--”

“He’s a drug dealer?”

“Of some sorts, yes.” Sherlock changed the focus and gestured to the centrifuge, “I made a solution and put 15 microliters in three different test tubes, one for each victim. Then I added five microliters of each victim's blood to the tubes. I divided each mixture that I made into two separate samples; resulting in six test tubes of solutions,” he tapped each successive test tube with one of his long, pale fingers to accompany his explanation , “and added alcohol into half of the test tubes, leaving the other half as they are.”

“So are you going to do some tests?”

“Actually it’s good that you’re here. I need your help.”

Molly grinned, “Well since you asked so nicely…”

Sherlock pursed his lips and ignored her comment. He pointed to the notes in front of him. “We need to do this at the same time otherwise the results will be skewed. This will show us how the molecule was modified.” He grabbed the six tubes and placed them in a rack in front of him and Molly. “You will hold this,” he gave Molly a small paper-like strip, “I have one as well,” he grabbed a strip for himself. “I have enough solution in each tube to have five repetitions of this procedure. So don’t make a mistake!”

Molly gave a fake salute, “Yes sir!”

“My, aren’t you in a good mood today. The online dating is working after all?”

And because nothing could bother Molly at the moment, not even Sherlock’s distaste towards online dating, she replied, “Yes, yes it is.”

Sherlock grunted, “Let’s start with Victim 1, you’ll use the alcohol solution, I will use the solution without alcohol.”

(The test that Sherlock and Molly were about to do was something similar to paper chromatography. Except that Sherlock had felt that the original test was incompetent and had devised his own which in his view was faster. In his test molecules were separated from each other in less than fifteen minutes.)

Sherlock and Molly had been doing pretty good. It had only taken two tries for the first two victims’ solutions, _but_ when it came to victim 3’s solutions things began to fall apart. The first try, Molly got over excited and dipped her paper into her solution before Sherlock did in his. The second try Molly’s paper ripped. The third try, well we just won’t mention that. And by the fourth try the stakes were high. Sherlock was so focussed on making sure that Molly didn’t mess up that he accidentally dipped his paper strip into his coffee (which was beside the test tube tray) instead of the solution.

Molly tried to keep a serious face but the look on Sherlock’s face when he dipped his paper into the coffee was priceless. A laugh escaped her mouth and she doubled over.

“Oh shut up! We only have one try left!”

Molly straightened herself and stopped laughing. “Okay, we can do this.”

She reached out for a new paper strip but instead of grabbing paper she snagged Sherlock’s hand. She blushed and quickly jerked her hand back. “Oh, Uh, Um sorry, go ahead.”

He tilted his head in curiosity and shrugged his shoulders as he grabbed two strips, laying one down in front of Molly.

“Let’s do this slowly.”

In unison they slowly lowered their hands and strips of paper into the test tube. Molly held her breath as she matched her motions to the detectives’. Once again in unison they removed the paper from the solution and carefully laid the strips down beside their other strips. Molly let out a rush of hair and began to do a little victory dance, “We did it, we did it, yeah, yeah, we did it!” She stopped mid twirl when she caught Sherlock staring at her in amusement. “Oh, um sorry...”

She waited for the detective to make a snarky comment about how she was being childish or about how it was this kind of behaviour that scared men away, but instead Sherlock began to laugh. A deep rumbling laugh that made Molly happy and warm and yes, was making her blush. “You’d better save some of that dance for later because we have the results,” and he pointed to the paper strips on the lab bench. Molly rushed over and stood shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock as they bent over to look at the results.

Molly pointed to the strips without alcohol, “All three have a methyl group,” and pointing to the other strips with alcohol, “These three have potassium ions.”

Sherlock grinned like a school boy whose mother had given him a chocolate bar for his lunch. “Do you know what this means?” He turned towards Molly as he asked her.

“No I--” Molly turned her face as well and froze as she realized how close she was to Sherlock. Her nose almost touched his. He seemed to be frozen as well.

Sherlock unexpectedly felt the urge to move a little closer. Just to see what would happen; a type of experiment. _It would be for_ science _,_ a traitorous voice in his brain reasoned, _that’s all_. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he scowled slightly; more at himself and the situation, not really because of the woman two inches from his nose. The light in the pathologist’s eyes instantly dimmed, and suddenly Sherlock irrationally forgot about his internal disgust and his face relaxed without conscious effort.  Molly’s heart was just about to start beating again when suddenly:  

“So I know you said not to get you anything but you never seem to eat and---” Chris walked up and stopped abruptly as he took in the scene before him. His boss, Dr. Hooper was nose to nose with Sherlock, the detective that she always seemed to be complaining about. The instant they heard him they jumped apart as if struck by lightning. Sherlock straightened his jacket nervously and began to fiddle with his test tubes and Molly cleared her throat as she walked hurriedly past Chris. He stood there for a moment, open mouthed, with a bag of food dangling from his hand which was raised in the air.

Sherlock broke the silence, “Well don’t just stand there. Bring the doctor her food and get back to work.”

Chris turned towards Molly’s office in a state of confusion.


	6. Chapter 6

It was dark and once again raining by the time Sherlock left the Davis’ house. He had spent the last several hours stopping at the houses of three victims from the potential other vics from the cold case Donovan had mentioned at the crumbling cottage. On his way back to Baker Street from the morgue at Bart's, Sherlock had deduced that it would be exceedingly beneficial if he could see the mobiles of these other victims, considering that he had (fairly) solid evidence that their killer was the same person who killed the last three men.

It was simply coincidence that he had nicked Lestrade’s badge not five hours earlier.  

The last three mobiles featured the all too familiar red-ish flame that Sherlock had seen much too often this last week. Puzzled, Sherlock hardly glanced at the cab driver as he hailed him down. “221 Baker Street!” he barked hastily.

He jumped out of the cab before it made a complete stop and was in his flat in record time. John walked out of the kitchenette, “Sherlock I can’t even make a damn cup of tea without running into the equipment! ‘Billy’,” John added air-quotes for effect, “better figure something out soon or I’m going to hold an intervention.” Then he noticed the smug look on Sherlock’s face and muttered, “Don’t even tell me what you did this time!” and continued to his room where he seemed to be spending most of his time since the beginning of this case.

Sherlock shrugged and popped his head into the kitchen, “How’s it going?”

Wiggins looked up and grinned, “The results from your work at the lab are great! Kind like a puzzle it is. I found the first part of the poison, the killer used Hemlock. I’m still trying to find the second part of it.” At this point, much of Sherlock’s body had followed his head into the kitchen, and soon he was standing next to the disheveled chemist.

“Wait.” The consulting detective moved the microscope closer to himself so that he could peer at the slide. He muttered several chemical compounds under his breath and moved his hands around as he explored his mind palace. “This,” he paused for a breath, “is the antidote!”

“Whut?” Wiggins blinked stupidly. Sherlock looked at him and began to walk out of the kitchen.

“I’m a _GENIUS_!” the words burst hysterically out of Billy.

“Hardly.” Sherlock’s dry voice floated from the parlor.

Billy’s enthusiasm died down and he rolled his eyes, “Whatever.” he whinged.

Sherlock pulled the mobiles he had just acquired out of his jacket and laid them down beside the others.  

He opened each mobile's Tinder app and began to scroll through past messages. Several hours passed. Wiggins had left at some point and had mentioned he was leaving but Sherlock had been deep in his Mind Palace so he left a note for the detective. John had had several cups of tea and it didn’t seem to be slowing down. Mrs. Hudson had brought some cake from a party she’d been to and not even her shrill voice had pulled the concentrated detective to reality.

As Mrs. Hudson’s bird clock chimed midnight Sherlock jumped up, managing to flip his desk chair over with a loud ‘thump’, “John! Come quickly.” He began to rummage around the apartment but he wasn’t finding what he needed. John shuffled from his room slower than Sherlock had hoped, and was anything but pleased, “What is it this time?”

“You know, that if there had been a fire you would be dead by now, because I would only have time to save one person and obviously I would go for Mrs. Hudson.”

John glared and his voice rose, “I wish it had been a fucking fire because then I wouldn’t have to live with you anymore!”

Sherlock had already moved his mind to the matter at hand, “I need the Times from the last week of last month.”

“You’re joking.”

“Actually maybe from every week of last month would be better.”

“You’re not, well that’s just terrific! First it’s milk, then it’s nicotine patches, then it's a bloody mobile charger, and now it’s the Times, who knows maybe the next thing will be Anderson’s head on a platter.” John pulled a face, “And I’m definitely not dancing in front of Lestrade to get it.”

“Murder? John, even I know that’s too far.”

“Fuck you! If you would have remembered or stored this in your mind palace you would know that Mrs. Hudson collects them in a box under the stairs. And then you _wouldn’t_ have had to wake me up!” John spat the last words.

He stomped down the stairs (as loud as he could without waking the other tenants or Mrs. Hudson), grabbed the box, stomped back up and dropped the box on Sherlock’s desk. “I hope this is worth it!”

Sherlock laughed, “Oh just wait and see, it is absolutely ‘worth it’!”

John’s anger slowly subsided, “Since I’m awake now, you might as well let me help you.”

Sherlock pulled a pile of newspapers out of the box and plopped them on John’s desk. “Try and find a good looking man around the age of 37 in the obituaries.”

John sat at his desk and grabbed the first paper, flipping to the deaths and births, “Care to explain why?”

“Six victims. Six mobiles, and--”

“Wait, _six_ victims?”

“Oh yes! Isn’t it great? It all makes sense.”

John sighed, “Do elaborate for the simple-minded soul in the room.”

Sherlock smiled wryly, “When we went to the crime scene Donovan mentioned previous deaths, yes?” John nodded, not really knowing where Sherlock was going with this. “Well there were three separate deaths, two men and a woman, thought to be murders at first but a stupid arse of a pathologist declared them to be suicides. Apparent drug overdoses, because they were injected either in the arm or between the toes...” Sherlock paused and clapped his hands in glee, “... _but_ I got their test results which included high levels of calcium. So I visited their families as…” Sherlock coughed, “...Lestrade.”

John groaned, bringing his hands up to his face, “Will you ever learn?”

“What?”

“Oh bloody hell; forget it.”

“When I mentioned that their loved ones had actually been murdered they were more than happy to help me, which included giving me the victims’ mobiles.”

“Let me guess. They also had Tinder on their mobiles.”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, “Yes, but--”

“And that’s how the killer must have found his victims so now you just have to find a person who talked to all of them.”

Sherlock’s forehead furrowed. “How did you know that?”

“You sometimes talk to yourself when you’re in your mind palace, as you did tonight before I went to bed.” John winked. “I’m not as stupid as you think.”

“I never called you stupid, maybe slow, boring, but no, never stupid!”

“I’m just bugging you Sher.” John gave him a shove. “So you know the killer contacted the victims on Tinder so why are we looking through obituaries in the Times?”

A glint appeared in Sherlock’s eyes, “Ah yes the best part of this. So…”

John leaned in somewhat eager to hear what Sherlock had planned now.

“...I am going to take the identity of a deceased man and create a Tinder account to lure the killer out.”

John’s jaw dropped. He narrowed his eyes as he looked at Sherlock, at the mobiles, at the Times and back at Sherlock. He closed his mouth and Sherlock prepared himself for a proper scolding but instead of a frown or pursed lips, John’s mouth twitched as he tried to suppress a smile. It was rather impossible to get angry with the excitement that seemed to pour from the tall man sitting beside him.  

“Well?”

“Brilliant.”

Sherlock grinned. “Perfect. Now let’s find an identity worth using.”

By the time 2 a.m. rolled around John could barely hold his eyes open. “How you can be wide awake without drinking coffee is beyond me.”

“Skill, John. Skill.”

“You sleep in the day.”

The corner of the detective's mouth quirked up, “No comment.”

“That’s what I thought.” John handed a list of names and cut out obituaries to Sherlock. “Here’s a list of 5 men that match your criteria. Though if you ask me I would choose number 3. Now, I have done my job and I am going to bed.” John pushed himself up with a grunt and padded towards his room. As he stepped into his room Sherlock called out.

“Thank-you, John.”

“You're welcome.” Then a thought came to John and he poked his head into the hallway, “Umm Sherlock, one more question.”

“What?”

“Aren’t two of the first victims’ men?”

“Yes.”

“Heterosexual?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure that the killer is male?”

John’s question was met with silence. He craned his neck and saw Sherlock still, lift his fingers to his head and narrow his eyes. Then the taller man spun around, sat at his desk and began to scan through the mobiles writing things down as he went. John shrugged, closed his bedroom door and practically fell onto his bed, almost immediately falling into a deep sleep.

* * *

 

Sherlock ran. He ran as fast as he could, slipping through alleys and over fences but it kept following him. Maybe he should just give up, it was all his fault that he had assumed the killer’s identity. Now everyone was dead because of him. He came to a halt and turned to face the darkness head on as it overpowered him.

Sherlock woke with a start and gasped as the foggy darkness of his dream disappeared. He pulled his hands through his hair and took a deep breath. He had a red crease in his face where his head had been resting on his arm and his back was sore from having fallen asleep at his desk. “You idiot!” He scolded himself for falling asleep.

When John had gone to bed the detective had gone back to trying to find a person that all the victims talked to while in Tinder. As he scrolled through message after message he finally found a good looking man in his late 30’s. He had talked to four of the victims, the three gay men and the older woman. Then he found a very pretty woman in her late 30’s and she had talked with the first two straight male victims. He had almost given up like he did in his dream but then he compared the two profiles and found that the only real difference was that the one was female and the other was male. Otherwise they were the same age, and even though their bio’s were different Sherlock was able to discern that it was written by the same person. He decided he had one killer. He might not know the gender just yet but he knew what to do next.

Sherlock grabbed his own mobile and the list of deceased men that John had written down. He scanned down the page and stopped at number three. A big star had been scrawled beside it. Daniel Smith. Age 37. Died two months ago from cancer. Sherlock turned his mobile on and opened Facebook. Setting up the fake account was easy and digging up photos of Daniel Smith look-alikes was only slightly less so. Soon the brand new Facebook profile was full of false arguments with aunts and “friends”. The detective yawned but ignored the warnings signs of his brain telling him that he needed sleep. Instead he proceeded to download the Tinder app on his phone and made a profile using the fake Facebook account he had just created. At first he had no idea how to set it up but it turned out that Google had some amazing instructions, so Sherlock navigated his way through the set-up process as if he used mobile apps on a regular basis. His mobile lit up and a message indicated that he was ready to start matching.

He nodded. His, or rather, Daniel Smith’s profile was pretty good (or so Sherlock thought).

Everything that happened after that was somewhat of a blur. Sherlock’s sleep deprived brain had shut down and the next moment that the detective remembered was waking up from the god-awful dream.

John entered the living room some time later, nodding at the detective and offering him some leftover curry from their late-night research. While Sherlock grudgingly ate, John slid his friend’s mobile over to his side of the table and looked over his roommates’ progress.  

“Sherlock, you can’t make this your profile.”

“What?” Sherlock’s words were mumbled by the food in his mouth, “What are you talking about?”

“This!” John spoke as if it were obvious, “there are no pictures of ‘you’ doing anything. What about hiking? A pet? You have to at least _seem_ human!”

“Those pictures are so frivolous and silly, all I need is a picture of someone’s face to decide if I like them or not.”

John sighed, “You might be able to but others can’t and this bio, what does Daniel mean when he says, ‘I like talking to people that aren’t idiots, I don’t need another person to control me, I hate astronomy.’ This is absurd! Sherlock you need to change that! It sounds as if you don’t even want to be on Tinder!”

“Well if you think it’s so bad why don’t you write it yourself!”

“Fine! I will.”

John took Sherlock’s mobile to his chair in front of the fireplace. He dropped into it and began to tap away as he prepared to prove the arrogant man wrong. In less than 15 minutes John had given the profile a completely new makeover: a new bio and many new images (a picture of ‘Daniel’ with a very beautiful golden retriever, a picture of him hiking a mountain and a picture of him with a group of friends; all of them dressed in lab coats and goggles). The bio said: Lover of Historical Literature, Athletic, Nature Nut, Master of the Microscope, Dogs are man’s best friend. “Here,” he handed Sherlock the mobile, “Now this is a good profile.”

Sherlock perused the profile. He raised his brow and laughed cynically. “Ha, this is a load of bollocks!”

He was silenced by John’s glare.

“Fine! I guess this will do. Now let’s hope that the killer finds ‘my’ profile as appealing as you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John makes a comment about refusing to dance and having his head on a platter, this is a play on a verse from the bible --> Matthew 14:6 - On Herod’s birthday the daughter of Herodias danced for the guests and pleased Herod so much that he promised with an oath to give her whatever she asked. Prompted by her mother, she said, “Give me here on a platter the head of John the Baptist.”


	7. Chapter 7

Eventually, as the later afternoon rolled around, John left for his shift. From the moment John had fixed Daniel's profile to the moment he left for work, Sherlock had hunkered down in his chair and had matched up with so many people it was becoming rather overwhelming for the awkward man who usually failed in dealings with the opposite sex (actually who usually failed in dealings with anyone and everyone). He was getting matched with men and women alike, forget the matching, he was getting message upon message! One guy wanted to know if Daniel wanted to be his friend. Another straight out said that Daniel had a cute butt and that he would eat it. Many a women messaged declaring that they would gladly do anything of the sexual sort. Sherlock sucked a deep breath in and took a break for a cuppa. When he looked at his mobile again another woman messaged: ‘Are you a fake profile? Because you seem too good to be true.’ Sherlock’s eyes went bug eyed and he almost snorted his piping hot coffee up his nose. So in trying to prevent that from happening he spewed the coffee out of his mouth and all over John’s laptop which was lying on John’s chair. Sherlock barely noticed that as he set the cup down and slid his mobile into his pocket, making a quick escape for the door. He needed to get out of here, he needed a distraction. He snagged his coat and scarf and was on the street signalling for a taxi before you could say Bob’s your uncle.

The taxi driver asked, “Where to?”

Sherlock paused. Where did he need to go to clear his mind?

“St. Bart’s Hospital.”

* * *

For a reason unknown to one of the world's smartest people, the detective stopped before he entered the morgue, to “straighten” his curls.

He pushed through the doors and scanned the lab for a certain petite woman. “Molly?”

Molly heard a low voice call her name. That definitely wasn't Chris. She poked her head out of her office with her usual perky smile but the moment she saw the owner of the voice it dropped to a frown. She hadn’t seen Sherlock since the little ‘incident’ about a week ago where Chris had walked in on them, and she still didn’t understand what exactly had happened. “Oh, hullo Sherlock. What do you need, more body parts?”

He came closer and seemed conflicted, as if not knowing why he had come to the lab.  “No.”

“So why are you here?”

“To…” Sherlock glanced over the lab and then turned to look back at Molly, “...study the poison more?”

“Are you asking me?”

Sherlock blew out a frustrated sigh. Why was he really here? It wasn’t the poison. He already knew what it was! Wiggins had helped him this past week and they knew that it was a mutated form of Hemlock and Succinylcholine. Bloody hell, they even found an antidote, even if it was by accident! So he didn’t need to use the lab. What he needed, though he had yet to reach a point where he realized it, was to see Molly. He needed to check up on her because of late she seemed to be floating around in his mind palace and was refusing to leave him alone.

He shook his head, “No. I need to do more tests.” He could hear John’s voice inside his head. ‘Liar!” Molly seemed content with his answer.

“Do what you have to do, I’ll be in the autopsy room if you need me.” She walked away.

“Oh I won’t need--,” The detective smiled and looked pensive, “Actually, yes I might need your help again.”

Sherlock turned towards the lab equipment. ‘Liar!’ “Oh shut up already!”

“What?”

“No, nothing! I was just talking to myself.” Sherlock growled under his breath; he was really going to have to control the little John voice that appeared to be his conscience.

Sherlock sat at the lab bench and started to fool around with solutions, fluids and mixtures but his mind was elsewhere. Molly had just completed her autopsy and was walking towards her office. She smiled and giggled to herself as she scrolled through something on her mobile. Sherlock was so focused on her movements that he dropped the test tube he was holding. It fell to the ground and the sound of it shattering broke Sherlock's trance. He mentally slapped himself for having the lapse in judgement.

Molly’s brow was furrowed as she came up to him. “Are you okay?”

He shook his head as if to get rid of the thoughts that were bogging him down. “Yes, sorry, my mistake. The glass slipped.”

She laid her mobile on the bench next to Sherlock, and walk to the corner of the room to get a broom and dustpan. With a quick glance at the lit-up mobile screen Sherlock saw the Tinder logo. His interest piqued, the consulting detective leaned forward, suddenly intensely curious. This was all to do with the case of course, Sherlock never did anything that didn’t pertain to the case. The message system was open and Sherlock squinted to see the words. A man, some ‘Andrew’ with no last name [seemed suspicious], had apparently enjoyed a date with Molly. A strange feeling arose in his chest. It was bitter and made the detective shift slightly on his stool. It was probably from that cold curry John had forced him to eat. It definitely had nothing to do with the small pathologist. And even if it did, it was simply a worry for her safety; after all, the mousy doctor hardly had a stellar love life. Sherlock’s face was not as emotionless as he thought because when Molly came back she smiled softly.

“It’s okay Sherlock, it happens to all of us. It’s good there were no liquids in it.”

She bent down on her knees carefully sweeping all the glass together; rambling on about how a classmate in uni had dropped a beaker on the professor… And yet Sherlock heard none of it.

He interrupted her suddenly, “I need you to look at something for me.”

“And then he had a gash--.” Molly looked up from where she was on the ground. “Umm okay just a sec I can only do one thing at a time.” She stood up and threw the broken glass into the designated glass bucket. She came up beside the lanky detective, “Ok, what do you have?”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up and he tilted his head towards the microscope, “See for yourself.”

Molly leaned closer to the eyepieces and her scalpel marked fingers adjusted the focus knobs. She found a cluster of stained cells that were rather peculiar in shape. “Oh,” She turned her head to the side to look at Sherlock, “This is unusual, what is it?”

“An antidote.” The corner of his eyes crinkled and he smiled smugly.

Realization filled her eyes. “For the poison?”

“Yes, Wig--,” Sherlock coughed, “I found it by accident before I had completely discovered the identity of the poison itself.”

Molly looked at him skeptically for a moment but then smiled.

“You are...” She paused trying to find the right words, “something else.”

“So are you.” Sherlock froze. Where had that come from?

Molly blushed and bit her lower lip. “If anything, I’m a small, timid woman who only seems to attract the wrong men.” She let out a sad laugh.  

“Don’t say that!” Sherlock stood up and sent the stool flying and he stabbed his finger in the air. “Molly Hooper, you are a great person who's had some bad luck. I don’t want to ever hear you putting yourself down, okay?”

Molly looked sad, puzzled, and then content. She slowly came right up to the emotionally confused detective and slipped her arms around his middle and gave him a friendly hug. “Thank you Sherlock,” she whispered into his chest.

Sherlock froze once again, standing stock straight with his arms hanging limply at his sides. For a moment it looked as if he was going to raise his arms and put them around the small form but then he paused, having an internal battle, clenching his hands and eyes shut. He twisted his body and pushed Molly away. He met her confused gaze with an emotionless stare, “Then again by going on Tinder you really are just setting yourself up to meet arse’s,” He laughed coldly, “Only insecure people get involved with such frivolous hobbies.” His voice was low and laced with cynicism.

Molly’s face contorted, her distress was evident. She licked her lips, her voice was quiet and angry, “You looked through my mobile?”

“Yes.”

“You have no right.”

“Someone has to make sure you don’t attract another killer into our circles.”

She sucked in a deep breath. She lowered her head, looking at her feet, “You may leave now.”

Sherlock gathered his belongings together and as he walked past her she looked up. Tears streamed down her face. Sherlock turned his gaze away and left the morgue feeling as if he had just ruined the best thing in his life.

* * *

Molly slowly made her way to her office. She used the sleeve of her lab coat to wipe away the never ending tears.  What the hell had happened? One moment Sherlock was complimenting her and then she had hugged him and he just about blew up.

“Well fuck him! I’m a grown woman! I can do whatever I want!” Molly practically yelled to herself. She entered her office and slammed the door behind her, reaching for her mobile and opening Tinder. She opened previous messages of men that had clearly expressed their interest in just “hooking up” and began sending replies.

**‘How about this week?’**

* * *

 

Sherlock entered Baker St. and slammed the door behind himself. He threw his coat and scarf on the floor and just stood in the living room. His fists were clenched at his sides as he replayed and replayed the scene at the morgue. The vibration of his mobile pulled him out of his emotional breakdown and he turned it on. ‘7 new messages on Tinder’. Sherlock decided to push away what happened with Molly until he solved the case. He wouldn’t allow the distraction.

Sitting in his chair he skimmed through the messages. Seeing none from the potential killer, he began to swipe through profiles. All of a sudden he stopped mid swipe and for a split second his eyes filled with hurt, then it was gone. A picture of St. Barts’ top pathologist grinned back at him. He nodded as he convinced himself he was doing this to keep her safe and swiped right.


	8. Chapter 8

A small figure stumbled out of a packed pub in the fog filled streets of London. Another followed right behind, reaching for the smaller, whispering something that elicited an obviously drunk giggle.

Unbeknown to the couple, a pair of dark eyes watched them as they made their way down the road. As they rounded a corner the owner of the eyes pulled his mobile out and made a quick call, “She’s going home.” The person on the other side asked a question. “Ummm she left with some bloke.” He shook his head. “Uhuh different guy than last night, been different every night.” The person on the other side was not impressed because the man in the alley frowned and whined, “But Shezza, it’s not my fault! Why I gotta keep followin’ her around makes no sense. It’s not like you like her or something.” the voice on the other side stopped, then barked an order. “Fine! I’ll follow her, but I’m leaving once the guy is gone.”

Sherlock slapped his mobile down on the little table beside his chair and huffed.

John looked up from Sherlock’s laptop (because a certain someone had ruined his with coffee). “What?”

The detective shook his head absentmindedly, “Nothing.”

Nothing meant everything. Ever since Sherlock had blown up at Molly (A week ago) it seemed that the feisty pathologist had been shacking up with assorted men from Tinder. Sherlock was not impressed. And to make matters worse, if Sherlock had calculated correctly, the “Tinder Killer” as John dubbed him/her was going to kill again, soon. So he had to solve the case.

Sherlock had hidden a phrase within Daniel’s Tinder profile which only the killer would understand. All Sherlock could do now, was try and wait patiently until the killer came across Daniel's profile and hopefully message him.

As if it had become second nature, Sherlock picked up his mobile and opened Tinder, clicking on a profile head he had viewed every day since he had matched with it.

\------Molly, 37, pathologist and cat lover, I enjoy chatting over a glass of wine------

Sherlock’s thumb hovered over the message button, but every day he pulled away. Today he paused longer than usual and then slowly pressed his thumb down. Why not? While he was waiting for the killer he might as well have some “fun”. Though how people found Tinder fun was beyond the sociopathic man. He thought ‘How would Daniel approach someone through a message?’. Sherlock frowned and tapped his fingers to his cheek.

“John.”

“Yes?”

“What are particularly effective ways to start conversations with the opposite sex?”

“Why?” John asked with an amused quirk to his mouth.

“Let’s say it’s an experiment.”

“Ha. It’s always a bloody experiment with you.”

Sherlock shot him an unimpressed look.

“Fine. It depends, are you actually interested in talking to her or do you just want to get into her pants?”

The detective's eyes grew round as saucers, “umm, no pants, nope, no, aaa--”. His discomfort was obvious.

John laughed, “Okay, no pants. So I assume this experiment is taking place on Tinder?”

His roommate nodded.

“Okay, you want to grab her attention in some way but at the same time show her that you're not looking for a quickie. Some ways might be; say something about her profile bio, just say hullo, say something funny/witty, for example: I have used, successfully, ‘If you were a vegetable, you’d be a cute-cumber.’”

“Hmmmm, very interesting.”

“Oh don’t you smirk at me, one day you’ll understand all this.” John gestured to nowhere in general.

“I have no use for ‘all this’”.

“Just you wait and see!” The detective had already begun to fiddle with his mobile so John turned back to what he had been doing before.

‘What would Molly respond to?’ Sherlock pursed his lips as he thought, ‘Ah yes, she did have an interesting sense of humour when it came to her job.’

**“Hullo Molly, I see you’re the ruler of the dead.”**

‘Perfect.’

If John could see what Sherlock had written, even if he knew it was to Molly, he would not be impressed.

* * *

 

A week had passed since Sherlock had made it quite clear what his thoughts were on Molly’s life choices, and in that week Molly had felt emptier than she ever had. She hated the fact that the opinion of one _stupid_ man had such an effect on her mood. Angry at both the curly-haired detective and her own traitorous heart, she tried to fill the void with a different man every night. But somehow, when the morning came she felt even worse than the day before that.

So here she was in Barts, on a Monday morning; hung-over, tired, and debating whether to punish her unnatural behaviour with reports or allow her aching head some relief and do an autopsy.

On the taxi ride over she had decided that one night stands weren’t her thing and that she needed to delete Tinder. She eyed her mobile and noticed the all too familiar Tinder notification. A nagging feeling pushed her to read it, another tried to dissuade her. She hesitated, she was done with the sleazy men but her curiosity got the better of her and clicking on the notification, opened a message.

**“Hullo Molly, I see you’re the ruler of the dead.”**

Molly’s facial expression was a mix of puzzlement and shock. ‘What a strange way to start a conversation!’ Then again, he made no reference to her breasts, arse or anything of the sexual nature. Maybe, just maybe she could have one last go, have a bit of “fun” before she deleted Tinder forever.

“Well,” she scanned his profile, “Daniel the dog lover, you seem to think you’re clever. Now I’m going to see, are you like all the other men on here or are you different?”

She replied to his message feeling in a playful mood: **“Yes actually I am. Hades decided to retire.”** Then she sent another: **“Do you always start conversations this way?”**

Molly set her mobile away with a smile, and with a spring in her step, she went to do an autopsy.

In her lunch break she pulled her mobile out of her lab coat and noticed that Daniel had replied.

**“Haha :D well he chose the right person for the job.”**

Molly blushed. **“How would you know?”**

 **“Oh just a hunch.”** Sherlock smirked to himself: _a hunch indeed_.

**“So Daniel, you know what I do for work. What is it that you do?”**

**“It’s embarrassing actually. Nothing as cool as your job. I work for a drug manufacturing company, somewhat of a consulting job actually.”** ‘Dan’ had an annoying (‘humanising’) habit of over-using the word ‘actually’. Sherlock was enjoying this alter-ego farce entirely too much.  

 **“That’s not embarrassing at all!”** And before she could stop herself she typed: **“I know someone who does consulting work, for the police.”**

**“A friend?”**

Molly bit her lip and frowned. **“No, more of an acquaintance.”**

Sherlock stared hard at his mobile. Apparently she was still holding a grudge. ‘An acquaintance? Really Molly?’

**“Ah, well maybe one day I can show you around my lab :)”**

**“Yeah that would be fun, as long as I can show you around mine.”**

**“Are you working rn?”** Sherlock decided that ‘Dan’ also liked short forms.

Molly sighed. **“Yes :( the longest shift of my life ;p”**

* * *

 

Daniel and Molly continued to text for the rest of her shift and it wasn’t till Molly was walking into her flat that she realized that while she had talked on and on about her life, her family and Toby, he had not disclosed much about himself.

Toby waddled out of Molly’s bedroom and meowed at her. “I know, I talk too much, I’m sorry.” Toby bobbed his head as if he was nodding in agreement. “Silly cat, don’t agree with me!” She laughed and bent over to stroke his back. “You know what? I think he has a dog, and since I talked about my pet it only seems fair that he tell me about his.”

* * *

 

One day passed and then the next and the next and Sherlock had yet to become bored. His days were filled with Tinder and a certain little pathologist, oh…and the case as well of course.

The morning after ‘Daniel’ had started talking with Molly, she messaged him, **“Hi Daniel, I told you a lot about myself but I know barely anything about you… :p”**

Sherlock replied, **“I’m sorry I was kind of preoccupied yesterday, go ahead ask anything you want :), also call me Dan”  ‘** Dan’s’ lack of punctuation was starting to get on Sherlock’s nerves. He began to wonder if Molly would notice an improvement in proper grammar, considering her love of emoticons.

**“:D okay, in one of your pictures you're sitting with a dog, is it yours?”**

**“Yes.”**

**“Aww cute!”**

**“Who, me or the dog?”**

**“Haha, very funny, how bout both?”**

**“Sounds good ;)”**

**“What’s his name?”**

Sherlock froze in panic. ‘Shite!’ He’d forgotten about that. ‘What should he name it?’ Maybe it was the stress from the case or maybe it was the repressed feelings, but whatever it was, a sudden rush of honesty hit the usually focused detective. **“Redbeard.”**

**“Ooh, like the pirate?”**

**“Yep, though he was anything but a pirate, he was the friendliest dog I ever had.”**

**“You say was...is he dead?”**

The detective’s stoic behaviour slowly slipped away and he almost smacked himself in the forehead.

**“Yeah :( he was really old”**

**“I’m so sorry Dan, I shouldn’t have asked.”**

**“Don’t worry about it. It’s ok, I’ve been told it’s better to talk about feelings and such than to keep it bottled in.”**

**“Do you miss him?”**

**“Every day.”**

* * *

 

The next day Daniel and Molly discussed their encounters with bees. Dan had actually done some beekeeping when he was younger while Molly had run into a beehive and had been stung so many times she just had to hear someone say ‘bee’ and she felt as if she was swelling up.

The day after that, they discussed the pros and cons of reading historical literature and Molly discovered she shared a common interest with Daniel. They both liked the author Homer, but Molly preferred ‘The Iliad’ while Dan preferred ‘The Odyssey’.

On Thursday, Molly messaged Dan in the morning. Sadly, instead of the usually quick reply, there was nothing. She assured herself that he was probably busy with work and told herself not to worry.

This also happened to be the day that the Tinder Killer decided to strike again. This time only leaving one victim, but once again in a pose of some sorts, though it wasn't the meditative pose, but as if the victim was doing a push up and then had been frozen in place.

* * *

 

John grumbled something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“I said, just because there’s been another murder that doesn't give you reason to wake me up after I just completed a late night shift!”

Lestrade had called Sherlock after another body had been found. The consulting detective had been both excited but frustrated because this meant that the killer had yet to contact him on Tinder. In his excitement Sherlock had woken his very tired roommate and demanded that he come along to Bart's because the body had already been moved from the crime scene.

And so there were the two men, walking down the hall in Bart's, one happy because he hadn’t seen Molly in almost two weeks and the other furious because his beauty sleep had been interrupted.

Sherlock practically waltzed into the morgue. Lestrade and Molly looked up from where they were going over some forms. Lestrade lifted his brow in some sort of compassion as he saw John trump in behind Sherlock, looking as if he was ready to punch anyone that came near him.

Sherlock acknowledged the two, “Hullo Garret, Molly.”

Molly nodded in response and the D.I pursed his lips and mumbled, “It’s Greg.”

Sherlock ignored the detective inspector and asked Molly, “Same as the other victims?” Sherlock noted that she smiled and actually acknowledged his presence. Either she had forgiven him, or something was making her very happy.

Molly gave the three men the rundown and then left Sherlock to do his own bit while she showed John and Lestrade something interesting. As Sherlock continued to peruse the victim he heard snippets of the other’s conversation.

“How’s life been?” --Lestrade

“Ooh actually great, met a guy.” --Molly

“Oh that’s great!” --Lestrade

“Yeah it is, his name is Daniel, and so far he hasn't turned out to be gay or a criminal so that makes me happy!” --Molly

“Where did you meet him?” --John

“Umm, ok, so I met him on Tinder, which I know is not the best but, I really think this is going to work, he’s smart and polite, we talk almost every day…” --Molly

Sherlock acted as if he was looking at the victim’s injection site but instead his mind was focused on Molly’s words. Daniel this, Daniel that, gushing on and on. It was pathetic; disgusting. But a tiny voice in his head cried out, ‘It’s me Molly, it’s me!’. He clenched his hands at his sides. He couldn’t keep doing this, the consequences of what he was doing by texting Molly as Daniel was catching up to him. He could stop texting her, but he couldn’t make himself do that. And he certainly couldn’t tell her it was him all along. He would hurt her either way. He berated himself for doing this and would have slammed his fist down on the autopsy table if John hadn’t called out to him.

“Sherlock you about done?”

Sherlock turned slowly, unclenching his fingers and plastered the fakest smile on his face, “Yes, I have all I need, let’s go.” And with that, he swept past the group, without a goodbye or even a nod.

John frowned and shook his head, “I don’t know what’s gotten into him, guess I’d better go.” He said goodbye to the pathologist and Lestrade and followed Sherlock down the dark halls of Barts.

On the cab ride home John piped up, “Molly seems happy, at least happier than she has been in a long time.”

Sherlock grunted.

“Said she met a guy on Tinder, Daniel, she had only good things to say about him. I really hope it works out for her because she deserves it!”

What John didn’t know that Daniel was Sherlock, and that Sherlock was in a state of distress as he tried to process his repressed feelings for Molly. His brow was furrowed, he kept clenching and unclenching his fingers, tapping his foot, and had actually debated about jumping out of the moving taxi several times.


	9. Chapter 9

That evening Daniel replied to Molly.

**“Hey sorry today was hectic, I only now saw your message.”**

**“Oh don’t worry bout it! I understand. :)”**

**“Ok thanks :)”**

Sherlock sighed in relief - at least he could still pretend for a bit longer. Along with all the stress, he had been worried that Molly didn’t want to talk to Daniel anymore because he hadn’t messaged her for almost a whole day. Right now this was the one thing he looked forward to every day.

He absentmindedly swiped through profiles when all of a sudden one of the killer’s profiles popped up. He stopped mid swipe, the profile said: Kevin, 35, theatre and swimming. ‘Hmmm not much to go on.’ But this was it. Sherlock could say yes, and hopefully ‘Kevin’ would too and then he could try and stop him for good. Sherlock swiped and almost instantly he was notified that they matched. ‘Perfect.’

Sherlock’s head spun as he tried to find a place to store all that had happened today. Realizing it wasn’t going to work, he got out of his chair and went to his room where he changed into another outfit. He grabbed a shoe box out of his closet and paused as he went to take the shoes out. He reached for his mobile and snapped a picture of them. Then he pulled them out, slipped them on and was out of Baker St. in less than five minutes.

* * *

 

Molly checked her mobile one last time before she went to bed to see if Dan had messaged her, he hadn't, but she did notice that he had posted a moment.

The moment was a picture of a pair of what looked like brand new trainers. The trainers were bright red and they had electric blue laces and seams. The comment said **\--Going for a run--**.

Molly nodded in appreciation and messaged him before she went to bed. **“Nice trainers, did you enjoy your run?”**

Sherlock (or rather Daniel) replied the next morning. **“Good morning sunshine :D, thanks just got em and yes it was nice!”** _Nicknames._ Sherlock sighed; apparently Daniel was a horrendous sap.

**“I didn’t know you were a runner.”**

**“Not many people do, I do it to relieve stress, sometimes everything gets too much so then I like to go for late night runs (especially when the streets are foggy), it really clears my mind!”**

**“Wow sounds great actually, maybe I should come with you sometime ;)”**

Sherlock frowned; Molly had been dropping hints about meeting up with Daniel and he didn’t know what to do. He quickly decided that denial was the best course of action and did his best to veer away from these invitations.

 **“Maybe, though tbh I prefer to run by myself because when I’m with other people I can’t find my ‘centre’ as easily.”** Sherlock was a strong advocate for meditation [it had saved his life on many a case] and so it made sense that Daniel would have the same sentiments about nighttime jogging as he did.

**“Oh yeah I totally understand, and now that I think about it, I would probably be better off going to a gym, lol, though I don’t see that happening anytime soon ;p, where do you run?”**

**“I go basically anywhere and it’s always a min of 10 km, but I make sure that my route always takes me by The Serpentine Gallery in Hyde Park because I stop there and take a break and I dunno but it’s quiet, and at that time of night there’s not a soul around. The fog folds around me and it’s somewhat comforting….wow sorry this must sound weird”**

**“Nothing will sound as weird as ‘Ruler of the Dead’ let’s be honest. But seriously, don’t worry about it! I understand :)”**

Sherlock smiled to himself and slipped his mobile in his suit jacket as he walked to the kitchen for some coffee.

“What are you smiling on about?”

“Oh nothing, let’s just say the case is as good as solved.”

“Hmmm I might agree once we actually have the Tinder Killer locked up.”

The detective’s mobile vibrated in his pocket. He reached for it and turned it on. “Don’t worry John I should have this cased solved before next week.”

“You have two days then.”

“Okay...that might be cutting it close, how's the end of next week?”

“If you say so.”

Sherlock frowned, “Of course I say so.” He glanced at his phone, --1 new message from Kevin--. With a maniacal smile he stated, “Yes, this is it!” And with that he left a very confused doctor while he went and sat at his desk.

The message from Kevin said, **“I read the same book as you. Three Men and a Cottage is a masterpiece. We should meet up and talk about it.”**

Aha, so his profile change had worked! After John had created Daniel's profile Sherlock had added a bit at the bottom that said that his favourite novel was Three Men and a Cottage, really that was there so that when the killer viewed Daniel’s profile he would know that ‘Daniel’ somehow knew about him and wanted to talk. Sherlock rubbed his hands together and mumbled to himself, “Well Kevin: the game is on!”

Sherlock replied: **“Yes we should. I’ll let you know when a good time is.”**

* * *

 

It was a bright Saturday morning and Molly was feeling as if she was walking on clouds. She had several autopsies to do and then she found an unusual growth on a deceased person that she wanted to show Sherlock. When Meena had heard about what he had said to her, she had tried to make Molly promise to never see him again but since Molly had been messaging with Daniel she had been feeling happier, fantastic actually, and she wasn’t going to let Sherlock ruin that. Plus she did miss having him puttering around the lab. So before she got to her autopsies she texted him.

Molly: Hey Sherlock I have something to show you, can you come by later?

Almost instantly he replied.

Sherlock: Yes, what time?

Molly: In 2 hours?

Sherlock: ok, will be there

* * *

 

Molly gestured with her blue-gloved hand for Sherlock to come closer.

“See?”

Sherlock was about to respond with some comment referring to the faultless function of his optic nerves, when the morgue doors swung open.

John entered the room, his boots clumping slightly on the tile floor.

“John!” Molly greeted.

Sherlock took a quick step away from the pathologist and nodded at his best friend.

“Hi!” John answered, “Found anything?”

“Well,” Molly began excitedly, “we were thinking-”

“Why are you here, John?” Sherlock interrupted with a scowl.

John shared a look with Molly before turning to Sherlock and replying, “Um, well I was just popping by to see how things were going, and I wanted to ask you about those shoes?”

“Shoes?” Sherlock frowned some more as if confused.

“Yeah, I was digging around in the storage at Baker St. for some of my old jumpers and I found…” there was a pause as he ruffled around in the bag he was holding, “THESE.” John finished triumphantly, having pulled a pair of red trainers from the bottom.

The first thing Molly noticed was that they looked brand new, that store-shine still glinting from the sides of the soles.

The first thing John noticed was that he couldn’t recognise the expression forming on Sherlock’s face.

Of course, the first thing Sherlock noticed was everything. The furrow in Molly’s brow, the slight squint of John’s eyes, the stretching of his own face as his eyes widened; the shock momentarily suspending his normal control of facial expressions.  He spared a second quick glance at Molly as he struggled to correct his emotional lapse. Some well-repressed melodramatic part of his mind commented on how this may be the last time he will be able to look in the petite doctor’s eyes and not see betrayal.

The second and last coherent thought that Molly had was to recognise the glaringly electric blue laces. Then for a moment everything was tilting and she could feel Sherlock’s eyes on her face but she felt she couldn’t move. Then the room snapped back straight, and suddenly she _was_ moving her head, whipping around to catch a glimmer of ( _was it_ _remorse?)_  something in the consulting detective’s eyes before coming face to face with a cold stare.  

All possible affection for the tall man beside her immediately fled her mind as she felt the hot tears rushing to her eyes.

“ _You_.” The only indication that she had spoken aloud was John’s startled step back. “Get out. Get the _fuck_ out.” her voice sounded strange even to herself as she gripped the edge of the stainless steel table top.

No one moved. John was seriously regretting his trip to the morgue. A single word raced through his mind as he watched the tension-filled scene play out before him, _FUCK, FUCK,FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!_  

_Ok Sherlock it’s not bad. Don’t worry. She’ll forgive you, like ALL those other times. Smile and compliment her…_

Sherlock opened his mouth but before a sound could escape Molly intervened.

“Don’t you DARE say anything SHERLOCK HOLMES! If you do or try to do anything else I will personally see Lestrade and get a restraining order. THEN I’ll find a job as far away as possible from London...and from YOU.” She spit the last words out, laced with disgust and hatred.

_This is it. It’s done, you’re done. Leave. Make it seem like you don’t care. LEAVE and NEVER look back._

Sherlock grabbed his coat and was out of the morgue before he could even shrug it on. The last look he left Molly was perfectly empty, like a blank slate.  


	10. Chapter 10

John angrily pushed his way through the doors of Barts. A rare opening of blue sky (though not very fitting for what had just happened) greeted him. He stomped towards the street and waved a hand in the air signalling for a taxi.

Sherlock came up beside him. His face void of expression and emotion. “John….”

“Sherlock I really think I am going to kill you this time!” His nostrils flared as he yelled and gestured wildly. “What did _you_ do? What the fuck happened?!? I have NEVER seen Molly so upset and angry.”  

“It was just a game.” A look of distress flashed in his eyes then it was gone. “It wasn’t supposed to,” he sucked a deep breath in, “to get this far.”

“A GAME?!? It’s _always_ a game with you. You bastard, how do you not realize how much you hurt people with your twisted mind? You know what, I’ve had enough. Don’t talk to me until you have a better explanation than, ‘it was just a game’!” John turned his back to Sherlock as a cab pulled up to the curb, “You’d better get yourself another cab.” The doctor jumped in and shut the door in the detective’s emotionless face.

Sherlock hailed another taxi and muttered the address of some supposedly inhabited warehouse district. The sociopath closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cool window. He was clenching his fists _again_ , a habit that had only formed since he had become so involved in Tinder and a feisty little doctor. The only sign that this tall and usually apathetic man was having an internal battle was a single tear that appeared from the corner of his eye. It passed along a path of small wrinkles, down his pale cheek and dropped into the blackness of his Belstaff.

* * *

 John had returned to Baker Street and had expected Sherlock to do the same. But instead Sherlock stayed away. Probably better for the both of them because on the cab ride home from Barts John had created a list of all the ways he could physically hurt his roommate without it being considered illegal.

When a second day passed without a sign of Sherlock, John shrugged it off and went to work. But by the third day, John began to feel a little concerned. He texted the detective but unsurprisingly there was no reply.  

John was sitting at his desk and was just about to call Mycroft when a very dirty and banged up man tumbled through the door.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s piercing eyes turned to John, “What?” His questioning laced with a hint of anger and pain.

“Where have you been?”

“Don’t pretend you care.”

“Fuck off Sherlock, just answer me.”

“Homeless network, seems there’s a new sport, ‘street fighting’ and turns out I’m quite good at it too.”

John shook his head in disappointment, “Do you want me to clean that cut on your head? It looks deep.”

Sherlock smiled coldly, “No. I can do it myself. I don’t need _you_ or anyone to help me.” He turned and limped to his room where he slammed the door shut.

John rolled his eyes and opened his laptop, muttering to himself, “Well isn’t he just in a peachy mood?”

Sherlock peeled his clothes off and cringed as some of his gashes opened. He padded to the bathroom, stepped in the shower and turned the water on cold. The icy spray slowly cleaned the blood and dirt off him but no matter how hard he tried, right now, or yesterday when he was beating the guts out of someone, or the day before when he almost gave in and accepted the needle that was handed to him, no matter how hard, he could not rid himself of the pain. The moment Molly recognized his shoes, everything had been ripped apart. He felt as if he was walking an uneven path and he couldn’t close his eyes without seeing her haunted eyes. He gave his head a small shake and yanked the handle to turn the water off. He towelled himself dry and went into his bedroom for clean clothes when something on his bed caught his eye. Red trainers. His red trainers. Sherlock pursed his lips and closed his eyes, and when he opened them gone were the dark wells of pain replaced with a seething anger.

He stormed to his closet and dressed in a clean suit. Then he grabbed his mobile from his dirty Belstaff and opened Tinder, “Kevin, I think it’s high time that you and I meet.” He opened his messages, “ **Serpentine Gallery, Hyde Park, 7pm tonight”**.

John looked up from where he had been writing down notes about the case for his blog post. “Oh you look much better.”

“Great deduction Watson.” Sherlock replied in sarcasm.

John eyed Sherlock's outfit, “Going out?”

“Yes.”

“Is it for the case? I can come.”

“No.”

“No as in…”

“God!” Sherlock’s hands fisted in his hair in frustration. “You're so stupid!” Sherlock slammed his mobile on the desk and turned towards the door.

John narrowed his eyes, “Not taking your mobile.”

“Wouldn’t want anyone tracking me, would I?” The detective left the doctor in a wake of confusion. _What the hell is wrong with him? He’s acting like someone that has feelings and it’s not like he actually liked M--._ John stopped mid thought as the realization hit him and he shot out of his chair. “Holy shit!”

The small man tried to remember when Sherlock had started acting weird. Then again he _always_ acted weird. How about when Sherlock started acting normal? They got the case, Sherlock went to the lab for the poison (but not more than usual), he got Tinder, then he started going to the lab more, than all of sudden he went at least a week without going to Barts and instead was spending almost all his time on his mobile...John raised his brow and looked down at Sherlock's mobile. _I need to see what made him use Tinder all the time._ John turned the iPhone on, password: 221b (sadly when it came to his personal passwords Sherlock failed to be creative and _also_ John might have looked over his roommate's shoulder at one point and seen him type it in).

The home screen showed up and John clicked on the now familiar flame icon. He clicked here and there trying to find what could have caused all the problems. He opened the messages and began to scroll, “Wow, Daniel you’ve been a busy man!”. Nothing stood out as obvious until a familiar face looked back at him. Molly. John’s thumb hovered over the conversation, _should I read it? Yes, for the sake of us all I need to know what’s going on._

For the next couple hours John slimmed through the lengthy conversation Sherlock or rather Daniel had with Bart's’ best pathologist. When he came to the end there was one thing he knew without a doubt. The world’s only consulting detective, the man who considered himself a sociopath, his roommate, was in love with Molly Hooper.

John stretched and grabbed his own mobile, he needed to call Molly. He dialed her number but it only dialed twice before he was notified that he could leave a message. _She turned her phone off, then again I would too after what happened._ John decided that he needed to make a trip to Barts.

* * *

 

The sun bathed the hospital in its late afternoon rays, giving an appearance that all was well, Once you walked inside though, or rather, once you were in the basement, all was _anything_ but well _._ John was making his way towards the morgue when he bumped into Mike Stamford.

“Oi Mike, how are you? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Hey mate, good to see you. I _was_ doing well but, err, things have been a little rocky lately.”

John frowned and then his eyes widened in recognition, “I’m going to guess and say it has to do with the morgue?”

Mike eyed him, “Actually yes, it’s started several days ago. Molly Hooper, one of the pathologists - you know her right?”

“Yes, yes I know her.”

“Well she started acting funny, first she asked to work every day. I don't think she’s even left to go home. And then she started cussing, which she’s never done, she’s usually so sweet. Yesterday she threatened to fire one of the lab assistants, Chris, and now she’s locked herself in the morgue.”

John looked towards the morgue in concern. “Shite.”

“Yeah shite is right. I have no idea what to do.”

John pursed his lips, thought for a second and then snapped his fingers. “I think I have an idea... Mycroft.”

“As in Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say there’s a good chance that Sherlock is the cause for all this and since he’s currently unavailable I’m going to call in his brother to ‘clean up’ his mess.”

“If it fixes everything then I’m alright! I need my old pathologist back!” Mike pushed his glasses up his nose. “See you later and I guess I’ll find out tomorrow if it worked or not.”

John and Mike shook hands and the rotund man continued on towards his office while John walked back outside. Pulling his mobile out of his coat pocket, John dialed a number that Sherlock had argued was pointless and it had barely rung once before it was picked up.

Not bothering with pleasantries, John spoke first: “We have a problem.”

“What has he done this time?”

“Shouldn’t you know already, seeing as you’re the bloody British government?”

“Sadly that does mean that there are times when I can’t keep as much of an eye on him as I would like to. So what’s wrong?”

“Molly Hooper.”

“Really? Sherlock always talks about, saying she’s the only pathologist he’s capable of working with.”

“Exactly.”

John heard Mycroft pause and could imagine him smirking as he realized what John was saying.

“Aaah I see. Has my little brother let sentiment cloud his judgement?”

“In a way yes.”

“So why do I have to come?”

“It’s a long story…”

“Do tell, it’s not like I have to run a whole country or something.” The sarcasm was obvious but that didn’t deter John. He started from the beginning and told Mycroft about the case (which he knew of), about Tinder (which he didn’t know of) and how Sherlock had been messaging with Molly and that things got pretty ‘deep’ and now everything was messed up. Sherlock was off running around who knows where and Molly was turning into a maniacal pathologist.”

“Hmmm, I think I need to give Molly Hooper a little visit.”

“Please be a little bit more courteous than when you _made_ me have a little visit with you.”

Mycroft huffed. “I’m not that stupid.”

Ah yes and it was moments like these that it was obvious Sherlock and him were brothers.

“Thanks Mycroft.”

* * *

 

Sherlock stood in a small grove of trees near the gallery and surveyed the area. To the few walking by, he looked like a man that was dozing off against a tree but really he was watching and categorizing every single detail. What they didn’t know was that he was searching the shifting twilight for someone specific, a man that had turned Sherlock's world around in a way that seemed unfixable: The Tinder Killer.

 

Sherlock glanced at his watch. 6:50 pm. He quickly scanned the area and with long strides made his way to the Serpentine Gallery. A sense of calm washed over the unusually tense detective. This was his place. The familiar shadows and this looming structure spoke of many fog-obscured starry skies and late night revelations to the dark-haired man.

 

The detective knew that the killer would have probably created a fake profile just like he did with Daniels. He wasn’t expecting the killer to look like Kevin and at the same time expected the killer to be looking for Daniel, so it came as a surprise to him when someone placed their hand on his shoulder and said, “Hello Daniel.”

 

The initial shock prompted Sherlock to throw his arm out in defense but it was instantly stopped by an unexpectedly strong grip. His icy blue eyes met those of a middle aged woman. He frowned, “Do I know you?”

 

“You tell me.”

 

Sherlock's analytical gaze swept down the figure once more.  Square jaw. Thick eyebrows. A spot of stubble under the left ear. Thick fingers. “I don’t suppose your name is actually Kevin.”

  
 “I figured two could play this game,” there was a pause, “Sherlock.”


	11. Chapter 11

As Sherlock entered Hyde Park, Mycroft got off the phone with Dr. Watson.

He ran his hand over his balding head and sighed. Could Sherlock just go one year without mucking up? He pressed a button on his desk grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair, shrugging it on. Anthea popped her head around the door.

“Yes?”

“Can you get the car ready?”

She raised a brow and looked at the agenda in her hand. “All your evening appointments are here...”

“Oh yes, cancel those, I have a rather important visit I need to make.”

She nodded, “Yes sir,” She turned to leave, “Anything else?”

“Have someone find Sherlock’s current location. I don’t want to have to explain to mother that I got careless and am letting my little brother run around London, location unknown.“

Mycroft left his office and directed his driver towards Barts hospital.

* * *

 The cold air snapped against Molly’s face as she grudgingly made her way to the side of the road where she would be able to hail a taxi. Despite this being her first waft of fresh air in the last 48 hours she was not a happy camper. Her involuntary freedom was due to the fact that her boss (Mike Stamford) had threatened to fire her if she didn't go home for the night. Her mood was further dampened when instead of a taxi and sleek black sedan pulled up. The door opened and Mycroft's head poked out, “Looking for a lift?”

 “My mum taught me to not get into cars with strangers.”

Mycroft gave her a tight lipped smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “The case could be made that you know my brother better than anyone. That would make us more than strangers.”

If the weather had been better Molly might have turned her back and walked home but for some unknown reason she stepped towards the car door and accepted the older Holmes brother’s invitation.

“If your brother has sent you to apologize or get favour, you’re out of luck.”

“Actually he doesn’t know I’m here.”

Molly eyed him suspiciously. “Then why are you? Are you taking me to a safe house?”

“Do you need one? I heard that hiding out in the morgue doesn’t seem to be working to well.”

 Molly huffed and looked out the window.

 Mycroft cleared his throat and fumbled with his mobile. “I am under the impression that you have been in a certain online correspondence with my brother. And that he might have overstepped his boundaries.”

 Molly laughed bitterly. “Sherlock doesn’t see boundaries.”

 “Maybe he would if he had a reason too.”

 The small pathologist raised her brow, “Perhaps both of you could learn about boundaries and maybe at the same time you could teach your _dear_ brother to actually tell the truth.” Molly paused, “I can’t believe I actually believed him. His ridiculous stories about running and his dog that died, named after some pirate…”

 Mycroft interrupted, “Redbeard?”

 “Are trying to bug me, is this some kind of inside joke between the two of you?”

 Mycroft shook his head vehemently, “No! Redbeard was Sherlock’s childhood dog. And unknown to everyone except me, he does actually run. Except for the last couple of nights where he seems to have engaged in street fighting.”

 A shocked ‘O’ formed on Molly's mouth.

* * *

 As Mycroft proceeded to enter an awkward but deep conversation about his little brother with Molly. Sherlock was caught in a rather awkward situation himself…

 “I figured two could play this game,” there was a pause, “Sherlock.”

 The detective hid his surprise and replied in a cool manner, “I’m sorry I didn’t even know this was game.” At the same time his mind palace was trying to process _how_ this man/woman knew his name. He continued, “But if it is, it would at least be courteous that I know my opponent's _real_ name.

 The Tinder Killer smirked, “Hmmm I have to think for a second. I have so many nowadays I tend to forget my actual one. Well there’s Kevin, then there’s Sarah…”

 “Ah yes, your female Tinder profile.”

 “Oh and I can’t forget my stage name, Sophie.” The killer gestured towards his outfit.

 Sherlock must have looked slightly confused because his opponent explained, “Killing isn’t my only hobby you know, I also like to dabble in drag.”

 Piece by piece the puzzle began to click together. At the crime scene with the three gay men, there had been obvious evidence that suggested the presence of a man and a woman. Wouldn’t Lestrade be surprised to find out that it was true in the sense that it was a man that was dressed as a woman.

 “But if you must now my actual name, it is...,” he smirked, “Daniel.”

 “You should know better than to play with me.” Sherlock threatened as he eyed his opponent skeptically.

 Daniel’s reply was laced with arrogance. “Oh so now you do admit this is a game??”

 The detective frowned and John's voice popped up in his mind. _“He’s trying to irk you. Don’t give in. Just be yourself. The haughty consulting detective.”_  A plan began to formulate in Sherlock’s mind as he reassessed the situation. The baddie was a man who indulged in drag. His actually name, ironically, was Daniel. John piped up again, _“One question. Why did you come here?”_

 Sherlock shook his head to try and get rid of the voice when the killer interrupted his thoughts, “Pretty smart if I do say so myself. Wearing drag, leaving the evidence behind, the tube of lipstick, the glitter, the shoe print. Did you really think I was that stupid?”

 “Your answer is in your question.” Sherlock answered sarcastically. _“Sherlock, now might be a good time to implement your plan.”_

 “Yeah, yeah.”

 “What?” Daniel looked confused.

 The detective scolded himself and the little John inside his mind for his momentary lapse in judgment and turned his focus back to the task at hand.

 Part 1 of Sherlock's supposed infallible plan; get the baddie to a more secluded spot. “We should continue this conversation in a more private spot.” The detective motioned to a dark nook on the side of the gallery.

 Daniel grinned, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Yes, let’s.”

 The two men, or rather one man and one man dressed as a woman walked towards the gallery. The odd person walking by paid them no attention. What was abnormal about a man and a woman walking around at night?

 The nook was out of sight from the main path running by the gallery and the surrounding fog created a barrier that trapped any sounds. So, unless one was standing right there the men’s conversation went unheard.

 Part 2, get him to confess and record it on a mobile. Well...that's where things started to go wrong. Apparently Sherlock had temporarily forgotten that he had purposely left his mobile on his desk because he didn’t want John tracking him. He slipped his hands in both pockets as he searched for it, realizing he didn't have it he asked anyway, “Why did you do it?”

 Daniel began to walk back and forth almost as if his drag alter-ego, Sophie, was walking down a cat walk. “Why?” He glared, “Isn’t it obvious? I’m bored.”

 “Great reasoning.”

 Daniel snorted, “And as to how. If I tell you I would have to kill you.” He came up to Sherlock and slowly walked in a close circle around the detective, he brought his hand up to Sherlock’s face and gave it a gentle pat. The detective didn’t even as much as cringe. Daniel made a tsking sound, “Then again, my plan all along has been to kill you. But now that we’ve been acquainted it does seem like quite a shame.”

 Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and raised his brow. “Are you going to kill me or not?”

 “I guess I’m going to have to,” Daniel sighed and shook his head, “A real shame though, a real shame. How about I give you a choice. Your last wish so to say. Would you like to die right now or die knowing?”

 Part 3 of the plan. Outsmart and outwit. Sherlock was confident he could do both but once again it was not accomplished.

 “Do tell.” Sherlock smiled haughtily. “Though that you can kill me is debatable.”

 This game that was going on was that of two young children. The jabs back and forth. The false smiles and heated stares. Slowly and surely Sherlock noticed Daniel’s walls crumbling. He was becoming more agitated and he was pacing while the world's only consulting detective seemingly remained unfazed.

 Daniel growled and reached into his over-sized pink prada purse, pulling out a gun like syringe contraption. He raised it slowly and pointed it at Sherlock. “Is it still debatable?”

 “Um yes. According to my calculations you need to be less than a foot away from me for whatever that is,” he gestured to the device, “to work.”

 Daniel smiled, “Ah bugger, you got me there.” He dropped the weapon and moved backwards so that he could lean against the old bricks of the gallery wall. He bent his one knee, propping his foot up against the wall in a sort of psychotic nonchalance. “So, you want to know?” He tapped the device lightly against his leg.

 Sherlock hid his impatience and tried to mimic an air of casualness. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

 “Yes. The fun details! Well, you see before all this, my life was perfect. I’m a journalist, I get the best stories, I have money, I have a fantastic hobby. But…” He pouted, “but for the last couple of years something has been missing. The thrill and excitement of life. You understand, right?”

 Sherlock frowned.

 “Anyways. I had to write to shite piece about a testing facility and while I was researching it I found something interesting about one of the company's employees. I approached him and said I would publish it in the article unless he could ‘convince’ me otherwise. Turns out he had gambled away all his earnings and had less than twenty pounds to his name so he offered me something far better. A drug still in the stages of animal testing that could render a living thing paralyzed the moment it was injected, freezing them in the position they were in right beforehand. Then the toxins slowly make their way through the body until they end in the brain. The best part. Untraceable on a tox screen.”

 “I noticed. Then again I still was able to find its identity.”

 “Ha, well look at what good it did you.” He gestured his device filled hand in the detective’s direction. “The funny part was that he suggested I sell it as chemical warfare. Why would I do that when I could have so much fun with it? So instead I kept it and with the help of my brother Chris I created this little injection ‘gun’...”

 As Daniel ranted on about his boredom and his sudden rise in fame due to his serial killing a scene from Bart's’ lab replayed from Sherlock's mind palace. Sherlock and Molly testing for different chemicals within the poison. Sherlock initiating the close proximity. Chris walking---. Chris! Molly’s lab assistant. What were the chances that he was also the brother of the Tinder killer?

 The baddie answered Sherlock's question. “...this reminds me. My dear detective,” Daniel purred with a wink, “I thought you would know better than to leave your mobile on and unattended, even in the lab. Chris found it and thanks to him, it was uncovered that you, Sherlock Holmes, the worlds only consulting detective had a Tinder account under the false name (ironically), Daniel... Oh dear me, it seems like I’ve been doing all the talking, is there anything you want to add, Sherlock?”

 The detective rolled his eyes, “You were bored so you decided to become a serial killer. You wanted the fame that came with it. Killing me will bring you even more to the forefront but after a while it will fade. So, what’s the point?”

 The Tinder Killer replied in a voice dripping in fake sweetness.“Aaah well you see my dear man, at first yes my goal was just to kill you for some extra fame, but after some juicy intel from Chris, my goal has changed.” His voice slowly lowered and his eyes darkened. “Now it's become a game, a game where I destroy _you_ and everything connected to you…”

 Sherlock kept his mind clear and calm as he tried to understand the deranged man before him. He calculated all the kicks and hits it would take to disarm and temporarily knock the baddie out in time for Lestrade to arrest him.

 “Stop.”

 “Stop what?”

 “You’re planning something, and it isn’t going to work.”

 “Don’t be too sure of yourself there.” Sherlock took a step closer to Daniel.

 The killer laughed maniacally, “Can’t say I didn’t warn you. Now before you engaged your left hand kick to throw me off balance I would like to enlighten you on the process of destroying you.”

 Sherlock ignored Daniel’s warning and began to move when the following words froze him mid kick.

 “It involves a certain doctor. The name, la la la, ah yes, M, m, m, Martha? Mary?” He smiled wickedly, “Molly. Molly Hooper. Mousy little thing if you ask me, not worth your time.”

 Suddenly Sherlock could no longer feel the night breeze across his face or hear it in the trees. The stars seemed blink out of existence. He felt as though there were eons between his heartbeats; each space filled with random images thrown before him by his panicking mind palace, each sensory memory filling his mind with _Molly, Molly, Molly._

 Sherlock knew this state of shock was a bad idea and desperate to break his mind free of this spiral, he used a method he had learned from John. Harnessing a new born anger and not bothering to question where it come from the detective threw himself forward toward the smirking criminal shoving his forearm up against his opponent's neck, their faces inches apart and spat:

“Then what _is_ worth my time? _You_?”

 Daniel’s eyes stared back at him calmly. “No,” he gasped, “ _This is._ ”

 It was only then when Sherlock registered the sharp pain just below his ribs. 3 inch needle. 5 ml of poison. Sherlock calculated time of death by multiplying numbers involving his body mass and the amount of poison, roughly 21 minutes. Maybe more considering that the needle was inserted just under his floating ribs where there were no large arteries (which would lead to a faster distribution of the poison). Prognosis: unless someone found him in time and administered the antidote, he was a dead man.

 Daniel must’ve been carrying a small separate needle and had only been waiting for the perfect time.

 “ _Serial killers and their ridiculous priorities.”_ came the voice of John in his head and Sherlock let out a startled, incredulous laugh.

 “So true,” he whispered as his legs began to crumple beneath him.

 “Eh? What’s that?” Daniel leaned over him, his wig hanging around his face and tickling Sherlock’s too-heavy eyelids. “What’s the matter?”

  _What’s the matter?_ The question seemed absurd to the detective as the night air began to feel like lead and his skin boiled, _everything is the matter._ His eyes shuttered closed but opened again as he remembered the one thing that _did_ matter, the person who _was_ worth his time (or whatever he had left of it). He opened his mouth:

 “...Molly…”  

* * *

 Mycroft looked like he wanted to be anywhere but in his vehicle at the moment. Discomfort and a smidgen of pity were written across his face as he passed his handkerchief to the crying form huddled against the shiny leather seat of his government paid car.

 Once Molly was told everything by Mycroft she broke down in sobs, bumbling about how Sherlock was a fool for not having told her and how it all hurt so much. The fact that Sherlock may have posed as someone other than himself was a lie but otherwise anything else he discussed was all the truth. On top of that Molly had ranted about her past encounters with the consulting detective, and his older brother proceeded to explain that the way he acted was his little brother’s way of repressing his feelings.

 So here they were, in the back of the British Government's vehicle, driving in continuous circles (as directed by Mycroft) as the streets of London began to fill with fog and darkness.

Molly sniffled and blew her runny nose into the handkerchief. “I am so terribly sorry Mycroft. I should have never reacted like this. I don’t know what came over me.”

Mycroft cleared his throat and placed his hand on top of Molly’s giving it an awkward pat. “Don’t worry, ahem, I am used to dealing with emotions that are resulting of my dear brother’s actions.”

Molly smiled sadly, “Thank you. For telling me. It means a lot.”

Mycroft nodded with a small smile. Then he was about to ask if her if she was ready to be dropped off at her flat when he felt his mobile vibrate. Giving it a quick scan he recognized the number as that of his assistant, Anthea. He picked it up. “Yes?”

“I have Lestrade on line 1 he needs to speak to you right away, it’s concerning Sherlock.”

 “Patch him through.”

“Right away Sir, here he is.”

Mycroft pressed the speakerphone button on his mobile and laid it beside himself on the car seat mouthing silently to Molly, Sherlock's name. “Lestrade what is it?”

“He--Sher--20 minutes---dead---fas--”

The connection wasn’t fabulous and Lestrade's reply was crackly and unclear. “Please repeat that.”

“I need help asap! The Tinder Killer just contacted Scotland Yard and said that Sherlock has been injected with that poison concoction and he has 20 minutes before he’s dead. I have no bloody where he is, further the killer told us nothing!”

Molly’s eyes widened in horror and she raised her hands to her mouth.

Mycroft’s face blanked and order after order rushed from his mouth as he hung up with Lestrade and got Anthea back on the phone. “...and trace the killer’s phone call…”

The pathologist was frozen with shock as all her pent up anger towards Sherlock disappeared and was replaced by pure unadulterated fear. If only’s spun around her mind as she tried to listen to the orders Mycroft was barking about.

“Hyde Park?? Are you sure?”

“Yes sir quite sure.”

“Call in more men, NOW! We need to find my brother asap!”

At the mention of Hyde Park Molly snapped out of her fear induced daze and an unexpected calmness came over her. Why did Hyde Park sound so familiar? Suddenly her Tinder experience with Sherlock (Daniel) popped up. He liked to run....in Hyde Park, then he would stop… Without consulting Mycroft Molly barked at the driver, “Serpentine Gallery!”

Mycroft frowned, “Why?”

“He runs there. It’s his favourite spot.”

Mycroft’s brave farce started to slip, “Well we know where he is but either way we can’t do anything for him.” He looked dejected as he realized that he was about to lose his little brother who secretly he truly did love.

“No! There’s a way. The antidote.”

Molly explained to Mycroft that Wiggins had accidentally discovered the antidote, it hadn’t been tested on anyone, but then again they had nothing to lose. Some hope returned to Mycroft as he contacted Wiggins and ensured that he would come to the park with the antidote. It had become a race against time.

* * *

 Time was running out for Sherlock. He could feel the poison coursing through his veins, slowly making its way up to his brain. Of all the thoughts that could be on in his dying mind, Molly was in the foreground. He regretfully thought of all his misused actions and misplaced words and how he hadn’t been truthful to himself or Molly. The worst part of this slow and tantalizing death was that Sherlock thought the baddie was now going to kill Molly and the paralyzed detective was unable to do anything. Five minutes passed and his breathing became more laboured. Ten minutes passed and his heart rate began to speed up. Fifteen minutes passed and his vision started to blur. Panic began to set in as Sherlock tried to concentrate in this paralyzed state, but to no avail. His brain was slowly being invaded by the poison. His mind palace was disappearing, floorboards melting, ceilings falling in; room after room disintegrated until only one was left. The room of a certain pathologist. He opened the door to find the rooms walls crumbling down. Memories both good and bad assailed him, pictures thrown at him, her likes and dislikes, her favourites crisps, the day they first met; these too slowly disappeared until the only thing left was the blurry figure of Molly running towards him as she yelled out his name. Then he floated off into the dark unknown.

With less than five minutes left everyone arrived at the park. They burst from their vehicles.

“Sherlock! Sherlock!” Molly practically screamed the name of the man she loved most in the world as she, Lestrade, Mycroft, Wiggins, and many others ran towards the Serpentine Gallery in search of the consulting detective.

Three minutes.

Wiggins spotted an odd form at left side of the building. He gestured to the others, “Over here!”

Sherlock lay paralyzed in the shadows of the night. His body in the position he had been when he was attacking the Tinder Killer. His eyes were closed and he looked like he was sleeping.

Two minutes.

Everyone began to bunch around the seemingly dead detective not knowing what to do. Mycroft and Molly burst through the crowd, Mycroft barking orders, “Out of the way! We need space.”

Molly dropped to her knees on the one side of Sherlock and Wiggins on the other. She was muttering stuff to the detective under her breath as she flicked the vial of antidote Wiggins handed her and grabbed a needle.

One minute.

Molly filled the syringe with the clear looking antidote and positioned the needle in the crook of his elbow, her shaking hands betraying her apparent calmness. “Sherlock Holmes you’d better not die on me today.” She pushed the needle in and pressed down. Once all the antidote was out of the syringe she pulled away and watched the detective for signs of life. Everyone held their breath as they willed Sherlock to jump up and tell them all that they looked like stupid idiots.

Zero minutes.

Molly cupped Sherlock’s face in her hands, a silent tears fell down her pale face, “Please Sherlock, for me, you can do it.” She felt for a pulse but there was none.  

A minute passed and people began to mumble as nothing changed. Mycroft came up beside Molly and reached for her. “It’s over.”

She looked up at Sherlock's older brother and broke out in uncontrollable sobs as she stood up. Mycroft pulled her into his embrace. He kept his face blank but on the inside he was just as torn up as Molly.

Lestrade growled and kicked the wall of the gallery. Wiggins was still beside Sherlock just staring at him. People turned to leave, when Molly cried out.

They all turned to look as Molly pulled away from Mycroft and ran to Sherlock's still body. Then they all saw it and heard it. Sherlock’s chest heaved as he sucked in a deep breath. His body tremoring as the antidote reversed the muscle paralysis.

Molly pressed two fingers to his neck feeling a slight flutter of a heartbeat. Then slowly his eyelids opened. As the blurriness of the poison wore off Molly’s small form appeared in his field of vision. The first word that came out of his mouth was hoarse and quiet but recognizable, “Molly.” A small genuine smile appeared on his face. He tried to move as he attempted to apologize.

She put a finger to his mouth, “Shh we’ll talk later, first you need to go to the hospital.” She leaned down a placed a butterfly soft kiss on the detective’s chapped lips.

As they waited for the paramedics Sherlock managed to tell Lestrade where the killer was headed and Daniel the Tinder Killer was apprehended less than an hour later.

Sherlock was figuratively and physically paralyzed. Physically due to the poison. Figuratively due to his deep love for Molly that he had repressed for so long. His still foggy mind wondered if that connection had already occurred to his brother and perhaps they should have a laugh about that later. John’s face appeared above him waving in and out of focus.

“Sherlock. Sherlock! We’re going to pick you up, do you understand?” Sherlock noticed that although this was John’s medical professional voice, his nervous tick (a slight breath through the nose followed by a quick lick of his lips) gave away his worry. “We’re going to put you on this gurney. Can you hear me? Sherlock!”

The detective simply rolled his eyes, taking up much more effort than he supposed was smart, but decided that the small relieved smile he received in return was much worth the expended energy.

“Right.” John still managed to push exasperation into his voice beyond the worry. “Okay, then.” His hand pressed down upon Sherlock’s for a moment before he turned away to bark orders at the paramedic team.

John’s voice filtered away as Molly’s head came into view again.

“Hey,” she said softly, “you really worried us out there.”

“Well I am alive.”

She frowned, “It was too close. You can’t do that again, you hear me?”

A rare moment of understanding came over the detective, he intertwined his fingers with Molly’s, “Don’t worry I will do my best to never do anything like this again.”

“I don’t know what I would have done if you had di--”

Sherlock interrupted her, “But I didn’t and I believe it is because we have some unfinished business…”

“And what business is that?”

Well it was as if Sherlock completely changed personalities (when asked he blames it on the effects of sentiment and the poison), he started apologizing and rambling on about his mistakes, he mentioned how he had been in love with Molly for quite some time but he repressed his feelings. And as he had been dying all he could think was how he had never told her how he truly felt.

"I am so sorry. And I'm going to spend my whole life making it up to you. Which remin--"

Molly silenced him with a soft, yet determined kiss. At first Sherlock was unresponsive but then he brought his hand to the base of her neck to pull her closer and he deepened the kiss. A small sigh escaped the pathologist’s mouth and the two probably would have continued snogging if they hadn’t been interrupted by Mycroft's awkward cough and John’s comment about them needing to get a room. Sherlock smirked and let his hand drop onto the stretcher.

And as Molly pulled away, she saw something in those clear blue eyes; something that spoke of forever.

* * *

 

**EPILOGUE**

“Please tell me you’re not blogging about our last case?!?” Sherlock asked as he rushed around 221B looking for his dress shoes.

“Yes I am and I do think you’ll like the title this time.” John nodded behind himself, “Your shoes are under the couch.”

“Harumph. I have my doubts.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out…”

“Out where?” John looked Sherlock over. Sherlock purposely did not reply. John’s eyes glowed in recognition. “Aha, you’re wearing your best suit, the purple shirt that Molly adores and you tried to style your hair…you’re going out with Molly!” He laughed, “FINALLY!!”

“Oh shut up!” Sherlock located his shoes and slipped them on. He grabbed his coat and scarf and he was halfway down the stairs when he called up, “What did you name the case?”

John replied, “The Tinder Effect.”

And for the first time since John began creating the interesting names for their cases, Sherlock smiled in approval. The Tinder Effect indeed!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this, I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks again to all those who set the challenge up and to the other participants for making this so much fun. Have a great 2016. :D


End file.
